


It’s Not Easy Being Dean

by strangeandcharm



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Castiel Whump, Dean Whump, Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-11
Updated: 2011-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-27 05:47:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 48,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/975153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangeandcharm/pseuds/strangeandcharm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winchesters are given a mission: they have to save Castiel. The trouble is, Castiel isn’t really Castiel any more…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set during season five. This is a hooker!Cas fic which somehow doesn’t contain any sex (yeah, I know, how the hell did that happen?), but don’t let that fool you: it’s still pretty dark at times and there’s sexual talk. It’s Sam’s POV, by the way, and pre-Dean/Castiel.

  
**Warnings:** All sorts of triggers such as non-con and child abuse (both implied rather than shown, however) and, well, anything associated with a life on the street. Also spoilery trigger:  This story deals with the subject of being HIV-positive.

 

 

~ ~ ~

 

 

Six hours and fifty-two minutes after he said to his brother, “Cas hasn’t been in touch for a while. Y’think he’s okay?” Dean’s cellphone rang and they discovered that no, he wasn’t.

“Hey! Long time no hear, buddy,” Dean announced cheerfully as he opened the phone, shooting Sam a grin that told him whose name had popped up on the caller ID. “I was beginning to think you’d skipped the apocalypse and flown on down to Rio for some carnival action.”

Sam looked away as Dean listened to the reply, bending over to tie his shoelaces with his mind still fogged from their late night and early start. He only realized that something was wrong when Dean suddenly growled in a deep, angry voice, “What the hell are you doing with his phone, you son of a bitch?”

Startled, he glanced up to see his brother scowling so hard it made him look terrifying. Dean’s tanned face actually drained of color as he watched, his knuckles whitening around the edges of the phone held to his ear, and when his eyes fell on Sam they were dark with shock.

_Who is it?_ Sam mouthed at him, and Dean blinked a few times before holding the phone out before him and hitting the speaker.

“…really thought I owed you a call,” Zachariah was saying. “After all, you’re practically family now, aren’t you? You must have been worried about him. That poor lost lamb, out there in the big wide world with nobody to look out for him.”

“What have you done to Cas?” Dean demanded, while Sam connected the dots in his head. If Zachariah had Castiel’s cellphone, that meant he’d captured him somehow. And the angels wanted Castiel dead. Maybe he was dead already? _Crap._

But Zachariah had a surprise up his sleeve. “I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he smarmed, the arrogance in his voice making the hair on Sam’s neck prickle upwards. “What would be the point? Apparently someone important wants our little disobedient soldier alive, and so I held back on the smiting. That’s not to say I didn’t punish him, though. After all, nobody disobeys Heaven without there being consequences.”

Dean’s expression was thunderous. “If you’ve hurt him, you piece of shit, I’ll find a way to tear your throat out.”

Zachariah laughed. “Oh, please. If I had a penny for every time a Winchester made an empty threat, I’d have more pennies than Scrooge McDuck by now. No, Dean, I didn’t hurt him. I merely gave him a choice.”

“What kind of choice?” Sam asked, getting to his feet.

“Is that Sam? Such concern. I thought your brother was the one with the angel obsession.”

“What did you do to him?” Dean gritted out, staring at the display on the phone as though he could simply will Zachariah into the room with them.

“He had to fall,” came the glib reply, and Dean drew in a sharp breath. “Rules are rules and we couldn’t let him stay one of us. But I decided to make it a little more interesting. I told him we could take his grace and he could fall to Earth and be reborn as a human child, the way it usually works. Totally pointless, of course, because he wouldn’t live long enough to take his first steps; Lucifer will see to that. Or…” Zachariah paused, drawing out the tension, and Sam could almost hear Dean’s teeth grinding. “...I told him he could become human as he was, in that vessel, and fit right into a ready-made life. Kind of like when you two boys took your little vacation in _The Office_. He seemed to like the idea. I assume it was because he thought he could fight it and regain his memories, but I can assure you he won’t be doing a Jason Bourne any time soon. I worked long and hard on making his new life a perfect fit. He has no idea who he is any more.”

Dean shot Sam a wide-eyed look which he returned in spades. There was a brief silence as they contemplated the idea: Castiel flung down to Earth as a human to live a life he had no idea wasn’t his own. It seemed insane, but they’d experienced one of Zachariah’s little mind games themselves and knew how real it could be.

“Where is he?” Sam asked eventually, hating that Zachariah held all the cards here.

The angel sighed. “How about we play a little game, boys? This hide-and-seek nonsense between us is getting old and I don’t have much to entertain me at the moment – well, not until Lucifer starts really kicking some ass. I could use a distraction. So, if you find Castiel and manage to convince him that he’s really a fallen warrior for God, I’ll give him back his grace and all’s well that ends well. If you don’t, he _dies_. For good. I’ll make sure he stays dead – I can do that, when he’s human. Whaddya say?”

“Are you insane?” Dean snapped without a second’s pause. “You’re forgetting something, dickface. _We don’t trust you._ You’re watching Cas, aren’t you? The minute we find him you’ll turn up and pull that ‘Say yes to Michael’ shit again!”

Zachariah snickered. “Why Dean, how terribly cynical of you! How could you think such a thing? Also… you’re an idiot. I’m talking to you on a cellphone, moron. I might not be able to find _you_ but I can track this signal right to your motel room – you’re in Spokane at the Sleep-Eazy Inn. And yet I’m staying away. How’s that for trust?”

Sam blinked, a chill running down his back at the revelation. Then he had a knife in his hand and was rolling up his sleeve, ready to draw blood and paint the angel-banishing sigil in the wall if Zachariah showed his face. Dean glanced his approval towards him before turning back to the phone.

“Okay, so you’re not here. But that doesn’t mean we want to play your sick games.”

“I think you’ll find that your precious Castiel is the one who’s been playing sick games, buckaroo. And they’ll be getting sicker unless you get on out there and find him. Don’t you owe him? Didn’t he turn his back on me and the rest of his family to make you happy? You can’t just abandon him because you don’t like the way I work. That would be sad. He’d cry.”

Dean met Sam’s gaze, his eyes wide with a silent appeal. Sam shrugged awkwardly. What else could they do except go along with this? Zachariah was right – they owed Castiel. He didn’t deserve to die just because they didn’t feel like playing. And from what Sam knew about the way the angels worked, whatever life Castiel had been placed into probably wasn’t pleasant. He tried to imagine him living some kind of lowly human existence – digging ditches or unblocking sewer pipes; possibly even locked in jail, because who knew what Zachariah had dreamt up for him? But it was difficult. Castiel was an angel. He was otherworldly and weird, not quite human at all, and picturing him living a mortal life was almost impossible.

“I can give you a few clues to send you on your way,” Zachariah said smugly as they stared at each other.

“You’re one twisted bastard, you know that?” grunted Dean, putting the cellphone on the table and reaching for a pen and some paper. “How the hell can a guy like you have Heaven as his zip code? You must bring the whole neighborhood down.”

“Oh, I mow my lawn and pay my taxes, just like everyone else. Now then – where _is_ that friend of yours, huh? Riddle me this, Bat-Dean: he’s somewhere obvious.”

Sam folded his arms. “Yeah, cause that’s really helpful.”

“Use your brain, college boy.” Zachariah sniffed dispassionately. “Clue the second: he has a new name, and it’s one you should recognize. The police certainly do.”

“You wanna vague that up some more?” Dean snarled, dropping his pen. “What, have you named him after Al Capone or something?”

“That’s all you’re getting, boys. Now go hunt yourselves a fallen angel before he discovers that being human ends in a painful, miserable death. Oh, and I’ll be in touch.”

“You can’t just–” But Dean didn’t finish because Zachariah was gone.

“Fuck,” he said instead.

 

~ ~ ~

The first part of the clue turned out to be easy. The second? Not so much.

They drove into Los Angeles the next day, staring at the rain-drenched skyline morosely as they headed up the freeway through more traffic than they’d seen in an entire year. Thunder boomed as they turned off into downtown, the wind making the palm trees sway and bend. It was almost beautiful, but they didn’t feel like appreciating the view.

“The City of Angels,” Sam said absently as they parked in a car lot a few blocks down from their destination. “I’ll say one thing for Zachariah – he picked a good hiding place. We’re hardly going to bump into Cas in a Starbucks in a city this huge.”

Dean turned off the engine and watched blankly as the wipers stopped sweeping rain from the windshield. He hadn’t said much that day, just driven with his teeth clenched and a grim expression on his face. Sam knew he was worried but had no idea how to help him deal with it. They hadn’t spoken to Castiel in four weeks and had no idea when during that time Zachariah had captured him; he could have been living his new life for anything from a few days to a month. Until they knew what that new life was, they were helpless.

“We’ll find him,” Sam said after a pause, in the absence of anything else to say.

Dean nodded, his eyes steely. “Yeah, we will. And we’re gonna convince him he’s been brainwashed and get his grace back and then I’m gonna strangle Zachariah with his own tie.”

“Okay. Well, as long as you have a plan, that’s cool,” Sam told him breezily, swinging open the door and stepping out into the rain.

When they entered the police station they found it in total chaos: cops running everywhichway, phones ringing, people shouting. Dean sauntered up to the desk clerk, flashed his FBI badge alongside Sam and asked with great authority, “What’s goin’ on? Looks like a hurricane’s hit the precinct.”

The skinny black guy behind the counter just blinked at him for a few seconds before saying slowly, “It’s always like this.”

Sam cleared his throat, ignoring the way Dean’s face crumpled. “We’re here from Boston to track down a perp – your Lieutenant should’ve received the paperwork this morning by Fed-Ex. We need access to your files.”

“Which files?” asked the clerk, scratching his beard.

“Any file pertaining to a white male in his mid-thirties,” Dean said briskly. “With blue eyes.”

The clerk looked at him blankly, then looked at Sam. “You do know we’re in LA, right?” he asked meaningfully.

Sam frowned. “Uh, yeah. We noticed. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“We arrest a lot of people in LA,” the clerk said, his lips quirking a grin. “You sure you can’t narrow it down any more? What’s the guy’s name?”

Dean sighed. “If we knew that, we wouldn’t be here.”

“Right,” said the clerk, looking them up and down. “You got a number I can call to verify your story? Trying to find a package in this mess–” he indicated the piles of papers strewn across the counter and beyond “–would take me all goddamn week.”

Sam handed him his FBI card, then tried to ignore the bedlam around them as the clerk called Bobby and was told, in no uncertain terms, to get his finger out and help his agents or he’d be slapped with a fourteen-oh-two-seven for hindering an FBI investigation and didn’t he know he had better things to do than talk to some rookie flatfoot on the West Coast when there were real crimes being committed on the East?

“In that room,” said the clerk as he hung up the receiver with a wince, handing them a set of keys.

“Thanks,” said Dean. “And hey, you got any coffee?”

 

~ ~ ~

 

At least the department’s records were on computer, which was a big relief, but there was no way to cross-reference the files properly. Sam figured out a way to do it using birthdays – they requested the whole of the seventies, just to be sure – but narrowing down their search using hair or eye color was impossible.

“Where’s William Petersen when you need him?” Dean grunted, scowling at the tiny computer screen. “I thought all this stuff was supposed to be on brand-spanking-new technology, not PCs so old you can hear the hamsters running around on the wheels inside them.”

“Cutbacks,” Sam sniffed, wiping a smear of grease from the screen before him. Then he sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Dude, there are over ten thousand names here. This is going to take forever. And we don’t even know who we’re looking for!”

“Zachariah said he’d have a name we’d recognize, right?” Dean tapped his fingers on the desk. “Try putting in some of our aliases.”

No luck.

“Jimmy Novak.”

Nothing.

“How about some of the hunters we know?”

No hits.

“People we’ve saved?”

They tried over and over again, but with no success. Either there was no result or a name was on the list but the picture that popped up wasn’t Castiel. After an hour, Sam suggested that Dean started skimming through the As and he’d start with the Zs, and they’d work their way backwards to meet in the middle, searching for any name that looked familiar.

“We’re going to be here all day,” Dean griped.

“Only if his surname begins with an M,” Sam reassured him. “Come on, we’re wasting time.”

It was tiring work. Sam’s eyes started to ache after half an hour, and after two he had a headache. He scanned the list of names as closely as he could but it was difficult to concentrate; a few feet away, Dean kept sighing and mumbling under his breath, signalling that he was having the same problem. And there were _so many_ names: Sam clicked on a few of them from time to time, just to give his eyes something new to look at, and discovered criminals from across the social spectrum, from drug dealers to thieves to tax evaders.

But none of them were Castiel, and as darkness fell outside the rain-splashed window Sam realized this was going to be more difficult than they’d hoped.

“I’ve just started the Cs,” Dean said miserably after what seemed like forever. “Tell me you’re moving faster than I am.”

“I’m halfway through W,” Sam told him, stifling a yawn. “I think we’re gonna have to come back tomorrow, man.”

“Normally I’d suggest we work through the night, but my eyes feel like they’re bleeding.” Dean sniffed. “Whoever thought white letters on a black background was a good design choice needs _shooting_.”

Sam opened his mouth to reply but his eye caught on something. He blinked and looked again, moving the mouse up the screen to highlight it. “Hey, Dean? You’re on my list.”

Dean let out a wry laugh. “Hmph. I’m famous. I like to think I’m on _everybody’s_ list.”

Sam shot him a look as his finger clicked the link. “When were you ever arrested in California?”

Dean opened his mouth. He closed it again. “Oh,” he said. “I wasn’t.”

They both turned to the screen, waiting tensely for the page of information to load. When it did, Sam felt his stomach flip backwards.

“Holy shit,” muttered Dean, leaning in close to the screen. “Is that… Jesus, look at him!”

The mugshot was black and white and grainy, the date beneath it reading 11/2/05. Castiel was scowling at the camera, looking pissed-off and angry and not a little bruised. There was blood on his cheek and an ugly scar intersecting his right eyebrow. His hair was dangling in his eyes and he looked dishevelled and rough, like he hadn’t had a bath or a good sleep in a while. He seemed younger, too. A lot younger. The picture had been taken just over four years ago, yes, but that didn’t account for it. He looked as though he was in his twenties, and that didn’t fit with the Castiel they knew at all.

“He’s got my name and my birthday,” Dean breathed out, jabbing a finger at the screen. “And look, it says he was born in Kansas. That twisted sonofabitch _gave him my life!_ ”

Sam stared at the date the photo had been taken and shook his head. “That’s the night Jessica died,” he observed, pointing. “I’ll say one thing for Zachariah – he’s got a sick sense of humor.”

Dean grunted. “Scroll down. I want to see why he was arrested.”

Sam felt dread settle in his stomach, but he moved the mouse. He read the first few lines and held his breath, shocked. Beside him, Dean hissed and stiffened in alarm.

_Petty theft_ , read the first charge.

_Breaking and entering,_ read the second.

_Prostitution,_ read the third.

And then there were more, spanning most of the last fifteen years: theft, passing fake checks, soliciting money for sex… there was even a jail term, one year in prison for handling stolen goods and prostitution. Sam blinked at it, stunned beyond belief, before he remembered with a rush of relief that none of this was real. This was all fake: a trail of tears invented by Zachariah, nothing more.

But Castiel didn’t know that. Castiel thought he’d lived it.

“That bastard,” Dean whispered. “I can’t believe he did this to him.”

Sam tore his eyes away from the list of offences and looked at the dates beside them, trying to ignore the implications of the word ‘prostitution’. Castiel – no, _Dean Winchester_ – had started offending when he was only eighteen. According to these records, he was now the same age as Dean. That explained why he looked so young in the photograph: somehow, Zachariah had changed his appearance. He’d actually made him younger, knocking a few years off him to fit him into this doppelganger life. Sam knew the angels were powerful, but physically altering Castiel’s vessel to make everything slot into place… that was the sign of a true artist. In the very worst way.

“It’s not real,” he said, as much to convince himself as his brother. “Cas hasn’t gone through any of this. It’s all fake.”

Dean ran a hand through his hair and cleared his throat. Sam wanted to look up at him, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the Castiel on the screen looking so belligerent and battered. Was that really him?

“Sammy, we gotta find him tonight,” Dean said quietly, sounding tired. “All of this might be part of Zachariah’s little game, but Cas is out there now. He could’ve been out there for weeks, we don’t know. He could be selling himself and having sex and he has no idea that he’s not human. He’s _living_ this, man. Right the hell now. We gotta find him.”

Sam nodded, struck by the pain in his brother’s voice. He hated the thought of Castiel out there too, but Dean seemed to be taking it harder. Sighing, he scrolled further down the page, past a bunch of boring code numbers and witness reports, before stopping as his eyes settled on something that made his heart skip a beat.

“Oh no,” he said.

Dean leant over his shoulder to read. There were two reports at the bottom of Castiel’s file which weren’t charges against him – in contrast, they were him trying to bring charges against other people, both of them men and both of the cases from the mid-nineties. Neither of his complaints had managed to get as far as a court.

In both of them he was accusing the men of raping him.

“We need to find him now,” Dean said, after a long pause. “Come on.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

The arrest reports were a few years old but all of them had one thing in common: the alternate Dean Winchester had been picked up on Santa Monica Boulevard, just east of La Brea Avenue in Hollywood. It was a stretch notorious for hustlers and prostitutes of both sexes and it had been for years. As the brothers drove as slowly as they dared along the street, scanning either side of them for a face they knew on the sidewalk, Dean muttered dangerously, “This really isn’t what I expected Hollywood to be.”

Sam shook his head with a sigh. “I don’t think it’s what these guys expected it to be, either.”

Most of the men they could see who looked as though they were waiting to be picked up weren’t even men; they were boys. Some of them looked barely legal. The rest seemed to be in their early twenties, scanning passers-by with eyes that looked older, all of them thin and wasted-looking. Nobody was smiling, not that Sam had assumed they would. Dotted among their number were women and the occasional transvestite or transgender hustler; this place had everything. One thing it didn’t have, however, was any law enforcement. They drove a couple of miles, moving into a better area away from the sleaze, and they didn’t spot a single police car on the way.

Dean turned them round again and they searched once more, to no avail. After an hour he found a miraculous parking spot and pulled up, opening the door and stepping out into the damp night. The rain had made the neon signs from the skeezy bars spill into blurry patterns on the ground, and as Sam followed his brother into the night he could smell ozone and gasoline in the air. He shuddered. This place didn’t feel right. It was wanton and sick. He hated it.

“I think we should split up,” Dean instructed, pocketing his keys. “You take that side of the street and I’ll take this.”

“Dean, what the hell are we going to say to him when we find him? ‘You’re an angel in disguise, please believe us’ isn’t really going to cut it.”

Dean shrugged. “Cross that bridge when we come to it. Hell, maybe we’ll get lucky. Maybe he’ll recognize us.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Sam returned, in a voice that made it plain he didn’t believe that for a second. “Dude, you do remember how it felt when Zachariah whammied us, don’t you? We didn’t even know we were _brothers_.”

“Castiel might be different.” Dean scanned the street through narrowed eyes, then turned back to him. “Hell, I don’t know, Sammy. I’m making this up as I go along here. What do you expect me to say?”

They went their separate ways and walked. And walked. And walked. In a way it was like searching through that enormous list of names again. Sam squinted into alleyways and frowned at people walking by, scanning, scanning, scanning, but with no luck. Castiel wasn’t there. They’d printed out the mugshot of him and Sam tried showing it to the people he passed, but nobody seemed willing to cooperate, even when he offered them money. Because it was a mugshot, they thought he was a cop or a PI. They wouldn’t speak to him. They turned their backs. It was frustrating beyond belief and Sam could only hope Dean was having better luck on the other side of the street.

He searched for two hours before he pulled out his cell and called his brother, who answered with a hopeful, “You got him?”

“No. Look, this is crazy. It’s three am and I’m beat. He’s not here, Dean. I vote we get some shut-eye and come back tomorrow. It’s been such a long day we could have walked by him ten times without noticing because we’re so tired.”

Dean hesitated for a moment, clearly weighing up their options, before sighing. “Yeah, I get you. See you back at the car.”

It took an hour to reach the Impala and by then it had started to rain again, a light, cloying drizzle that chilled Sam to the bone. Dean was already sitting behind the wheel when he slid gratefully into his seat, rubbing his damp hands and shuddering. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Dean looked half-angry and half-exhausted. Sam was disappointed too, but yet again his brother was taking this harder than he was. Castiel was his friend, of course. He’d dealt with Dean a damn sight longer than Sam had known him, and Sam knew they had a connection. Dean had to be feeling this pretty bad. After seeing some of the low-lifes out on the streets – not to mention some of the even lower-lifes driving up and cruising them – it was hard to imagine Castiel being in anything other than pain right now.

“We’ll find him tomorrow,” Sam said as cheerfully as he could, slamming the door. “This is just the first night, man.”

“Yeah, I know.” Dean turned to stare across the street at three guys standing by a vandalized phone booth. Two of them were Asian, young and giggly, slapping each other on the arms and grinning hugely at any car that passed by, using their youth and enthusiasm to sell their wares. The third, a skinny blond in a denim jacket, had his back to the Impala and was tying his laces with his foot resting on a hydrant. Sam stared at them and tried to imagine what their lives could be like, spending nights standing in the rain trying to earn enough money to eat or buy drugs or simply _live_.

“And we thought our lives were bad,” he murmured, shaking his head.

Dean was frowning. He leaned forward, his expression a picture of concentration, and Sam stared at him in confusion before following his gaze once more. The three guys hadn’t moved. “What are you looking at?” he asked.

“Sam, I think that’s him.” Dean’s voice sounded strained. Sam gazed at the men before realizing that it obviously couldn’t be the Asians, so it had to be the blond guy, but he looked nothing like Castiel. His hair was shoulder-length and his body language as he straightened and switched feet, tying the laces on his second shoe, was way too languid and supple to be the angel they knew. Castiel was stiff and straight-backed, dark and reserved. He wasn’t some loose-limbed kid on a street corner wearing sneakers and jeans. He… wasn’t…

“It’s him,” Dean said firmly, leaning back in his seat. “Trust me.”

Sam looked again, just in time to see the man turn round. His eyes danced across the road and fell on the Impala. He met Sam’s gaze and tilted his head, just a little, signalling that he knew he was being watched. And yes, it was Castiel. Sam couldn’t understand how Dean had known without even seeing his face, but there was no denying it. He looked completely different – younger, wilder, _human_ – but it was him.

As he stared, Castiel started to cross the road. Before his feet had even left the kerb, Dean panicked. “Holy shit, Sammy, he thinks we’re picking him up!”

Sam looked from Castiel to his brother and thought fast. “Good. We can get him into the car that way. Take back to the motel and explain everything in private.”

Dean’s eyes were wide and his voice squeaked. “Sam, he thinks we want to sleep with him!”

“That’s what hustlers tend to think, yes.”

“But that’s _Cas!_ ”

“Dean, get a grip! Calm down!”

“I can’t pretend that I want to–”

“Hey,” said Castiel, leaning in as Sam wound the window down. Dean slammed his mouth shut and stared at him in horror, leaving Sam to do the talking. One day, Sam knew, he’d be able to tease his brother about this, but things were still way too serious at the moment.

“Hey,” he said to the new arrival, trying to keep his voice as measured as possible. “You free for an hour or two?”

“Depends on what you want,” said Castiel, and there was something incongruous about hearing that gravel-deep voice coming from a man who looked so unlike the suit-wearing, serious angel they knew. Castiel brushed a strand of bleached hair behind an ear and stared up and down the street, clearly on the lookout for cops, before peering into the car again. His gaze settled on Sam for a moment, sizing him up. He frowned a little, then looked across at Dean. There was no recognition in his eyes. Nothing. He didn’t know them at all. Even though they’d been expecting it, it was a horrible feeling.

“What are you offering?” Sam asked, shrugging off his disappointment. Then it hit him that he was essentially bargaining with an angel for sex and he had to dig his fingers into his palm to keep thinking straight.

Castiel coughed into his hand, sniffed and shrugged. “Oral is eighty bucks. Anything else is negotiable. Your call.”

Dean let out a soft whimper which, thankfully, Castiel didn’t hear. As shocked as he was by the casual way his friend had responded, Sam tried to look contemplative. “Sounds pretty reasonable,” he said, amazed at the calmness in his voice. “Wanna get in?”

“Let me see the money first. I don’t take cards and I don’t like waiting around while people go to the ATM.” He smiled thinly, but there was precious little warmth in it. “Sorry, but I’ve been stung before.”

“Sure,” Sam replied, pulling out his wallet. He showed Castiel the cash and put it away again, marvelling at the fact his hands weren’t shaking. It seemed to be enough to sway his companion. With a final glance up and down the street, Castiel opened the rear door and slid into the back seat, looking around him with mild curiosity.

“Nice wheels,” he observed.

Somehow, the fact that Castiel was talking about his baby was enough to snap Dean out of his terror. “Thanks,” he squeaked, then cleared his throat and added in a deeper tone, “She belonged to my dad.”

Castiel nodded. “Good for you. All I got from my dad were bruises.” In the uncomfortable silence that followed, he looked around once more before coughing again and asking, “Where are we heading? Are we doing it in here?”

Dean’s eyes seemed to glaze over for a second, so Sam leapt in. “The Buccaneer Motel. Know it?”

“I may have been there once or twice, yeah,” Castiel said with a touch of sarcasm. “Which room?”

Sam reached for his key card to check. “Twenty-two.”

“The A/C rattles and the shower leaks, but there are worse rooms. Seven’s the worst. The cockroaches in there could stomp on Tokyo.”

Sam blinked at him, processing. Of course Castiel would know every room in that motel; they’d picked it because it was so close to the Boulevard, and its very proximity made it the perfect place for any hustler to take a john. The place charged by the hour for a reason. He glanced across at Dean, who was staring at Castiel in the mirror with a stricken expression. Realizing that Castiel was staring back at him suspiciously, Sam nudged his arm. “Hey, you gonna start the engine any time soon or are we staying here all night?”

Dean blinked out of his stupor. “Right,” he snapped, and came back to life. He eased them gently onto the street with hands that gripped the wheel so tightly Sam thought it was going to shatter.

“So,” said Castiel in a slightly bored voice, “First time, huh?”

“Oh yeah,” Dean replied, clearly trying to pull himself together. “That obvious?”

“Don’t worry, I’m used to it. You’ll be fine.”

Castiel’s gaze fell to his hands and he didn’t say anything else. Sam stared out at the road ahead, wondering how the hell their lives had come to this, wincing every time Dean took his eyes from the traffic ahead to glance in the mirror. They were going to crash at this rate.

“Chill,” he whispered fiercely, trying not to let his voice drift to the back seat.

Dean glared at him. He sat silently for a few minutes and then asked matter-of-factly, “So, what’s your name?”

Castiel looked up. “Dean.”

Dean’s expression morphed into one of carefully rehearsed mock surprise. “Hey, that’s my name! What’re the odds?”

Castiel shrugged and looked away. He pursed his lips as he stared out of the window.

“This is my brother, Sam,” Dean ventured, nodding in Sam’s direction.

That caught Castiel’s attention. He studied them both with a faint smile on his lips. “You’re brothers? Seriously? Is cruising together your thing? That’s kind of kinky.”

Dean sputtered. Sam, on the other hand, laughed. “This is the first time, and don’t worry, we’re not kinky,” he reassured him. “We just kind of travel together, is all.”

Castiel nodded, narrowing his eyes at him, before he frowned. “You said your name was Sam?”

“Yes.”

“My brother’s called Sam as well.”

It shouldn’t have been a shock, but it was. Sam had to swallow hard before he could reply; beside him, Dean kept his eyes fixed firmly on the road, his jaw tensed.

“Small world,” Sam said off-handedly, like it was no big deal. “What does your brother do?”

“Fuck knows,” Castiel returned. “Haven’t seen him since I was eighteen.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean said with more emotion than Sam liked to hear in his voice. “That’s gotta be tough.”

Castiel shrugged. “Things are tough all over.”

An awkward silence fell. Castiel stared out of the window, idly playing with the leather cord wrapped around his wrist. Dean drove stiff-backed, his face grim, and Sam contemplated just how easy it was going to be to convince the streetwise, self-assured man in the back of their car that he was actually an angel sent from Heaven and hadn’t really spent most of his life selling himself for sex. Even stopping the apocalypse had to be easier than this.

They pulled up outside the motel, which was surprisingly busy considering that dawn was only half an hour away. Music blared from one of the rooms and a group of teenagers were clustered around the vending machine by the office, chugging back beer and shouting at each other.

“I don’t like the look of them,” Dean said tightly, grimacing. “If they touch my car there’ll be hell to pay.”

Castiel peered out of the window and chuckled. “Don’t worry. They know not to mess with any of the cars that use this lot. They’ve learnt the hard way.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean’s eyebrows raised as he turned to look at him.

“It means that this place is for guys like us, and we don’t like having our customers harassed,” Castiel said, opening the door. “There are rules. And guys bigger than me who like to enforce them.”

Dean looked mildly impressed. “Frontier justice, huh?”

But Castiel didn’t respond, climbing out of the car without a word. Dean followed him as Sam walked around the vehicle to grab their bags from the trunk. When he looked up, Castiel was staring at him with an unreadable expression on his face.

“What is it?” Sam asked, puzzled.

Castiel dropped his eyes and shrugged. He watched as Dean opened the door to their room and vanished inside, then shot Sam another look, this one a little wide-eyed. Sam had no idea what he was thinking, so he smiled with as much reassurance as he could muster and nodded towards the door. “After you.”

Castiel seemed to pull himself together and turned to go. Baffled, Sam followed him into the room and closed the door behind them; at the sound of the lock clicking into place, Castiel’s shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t say a word.

“I’m gonna have to turn off the A/C,” Dean said nervously, stepping over to the window. “This thing’s rattling like a steam train, just like you said.” He flicked a switch and the room would have fallen silent if it hadn’t been for the music pumping away a few doors down. It smelt of old cigarettes and something Sam didn’t even want to try to classify in there, and he shivered. He turned to gaze at Castiel and it took him a few seconds to realize that he and Dean were both just standing and staring at him expectantly, clearly waiting for some sort of signal.

_Awkward._

Castiel looked them up and down, shook his head and took off his damp denim jacket, revealing a blue t-shirt with a picture of a seagull on it that had seen better days. Or even decades. “Who’s up first, then?” he said briskly, avoiding looking in their eyes.

Dean cleared his throat. “Okay, look. This is, uh, kinda weird.”

Castiel coughed quietly and nodded. “You can turn the lights off if it makes you feel more comfortable.”

“No! No. Crap, this is weird.” Dean rubbed a hand down his face and sighed. “Look, we didn’t bring you here to do… that. We just want to talk.”

Castiel’s head snapped up and he stared at him intently. In the harsh light of the room he looked tired and pale, despite his suntan. He was way smaller than Sam had ever imagined he would be, the scar they’d seen in his mugshot intersecting his right eyebrow and obvious despite the fact it was partly hidden by his hair; Sam wondered if he’d grown it just to keep it covered up. There were dark circles under his eyes but his gaze was fierce and calculating. This was a man who clearly lived by his wits and determination, but it was hard for him. He looked sharp and wrung-out, a completely different person to the one they knew. This was Castiel if Castiel had been born human and lived a horrible life with all of humanity’s weaknesses. For a moment Sam despaired – there was nothing here that he knew at all, so why should Castiel know them in return?

“You want to talk,” the stranger standing in front of them said flatly.

“Yes. That’s it. No funny business, honest. We just want to talk to you.”

Castiel flicked his eyes from Dean to Sam, his face a picture of suspicion. “What about?”

Dean shot Sam a helpless look. Taking his cue, Sam said faintly, “Uh… this is gonna sound pretty crazy, okay? But, uh, we kind of know you.”

Eyes narrowing, Castiel said plainly, “Have we fucked before?”

“God, no,” Dean almost shouted, looking completely freaked. “No, no. One hundred per cent no. Nothing like that, seriously. You’re a friend.”

“I don’t know you,” Castiel observed, and his voice was deepening with every word.

“It’s a long story,” Sam butted in. “Please, could you just at least listen?”

“I don’t earn money _listening_ ,” Castiel growled, picking up his jacket and pulling it on. “Look, it’s been a long, crappy night and I’m cold and I’m wet and I really can’t deal with your shit right now. I thought you brought me here to blow you. I haven’t got time for this, guys. Either you let me leave or you fuck me; either way, I don’t want to hear any dumbass story.”

Sam caught his breath, startled by his belligerence. Dean, however, appeared to have a brainwave. “We’ll pay you three hundred bucks if you stay,” he announced, pulling his wallet out of his pocket and slapping the cash on the table between them. “Here, look, we’re good for it. All you have to do is sit down and listen to us. No strings. You don’t have to do anything else, just listen.”

Castiel stared at the money, clearly confused, before a slow smile spread across his face. “Oh, I get it. This is an intervention, isn’t it? You work for one of those church groups who want to rehabilitate guys like me. You’re gonna preach me the gospel and tell me the error of my ways.”

“Not really,” Dean said uncertainly. “But what do you care? You’ll have earned three hundred dollars without having to see anybody naked. How often can you do that?”

Castiel shrugged, clearly wavering.

“Please,” Dean said.

With a final glance between their faces, Castiel’s body relaxed and he pulled out a chair from under the stained Formica table. “Okay,” he allowed, drumming his fingers on the top. “But if you want me to stay around, you’ve gotta feed me as well.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

Sam ran out for some burgers and coffee. When he returned, shaking raindrops out of his hair and cursing under his breath, Dean and Castiel – or even Dean and _Dean_ , if you wanted to look at it that way – were sitting facing each other at the table. Castiel was staring at the fake FBI badge Dean had made for him a few months beforehand, peering at the tiny photograph of himself with a curious expression.

“He’s not me,” he declared, shaking his head as Sam placed the food on the table. “That guy’s older and he doesn’t have a scar. And he looks like he’s got a stick up his ass.”

Dean smirked, folding his arms. “One day I’m gonna remind you that you said that.”

Castiel tossed the badge back on the table and started unwrapping a burger. “So you have a photo of some dude who looks like me and you think I’m him. I’m sorry I’m not your friend, really, but you’re clutching at straws here.”

“It’s definitely you,” Sam interjected, sitting down on the edge of a nearby bed. “I know this is gonna sound crazy, but your name is actually Castiel.”

Castiel snorted and took a mouthful of burger. “What kind of a dumbass name is that? Sounds like an Elf from _The Lord of the Rings_.”

“You’re not really Dean Winchester,” Dean told him, clearly deciding to bite the bullet. “ _My_ name is Dean Winchester. Your name is Castiel. You’re an angel, Cas… uh, Dean.”

Castiel stopped chewing. He looked up at Dean from under his hair and his eyes widened. “Oh my god. You’re crazier than I thought.” Then he frowned and said in a puzzled voice, “And how the hell did you find out my surname?”

“We’ve got the same name. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You’re living my life.”

“Uh-huh.” Castiel let out a breath and shook his head. “You took too much acid in college, man.”

Dean sighed in frustration and rubbed at his cheek. He reached out for his coffee but Castiel got there first, pulling the cardboard cup away from him and sliding his own cup over to Dean instead. “What’s wrong with yours?” Dean asked.

Castiel put down his burger and peeled the lid off the cup. “You think I’m gonna trust any drink you give me? I’ve been roofied before by guys who played nice and seemed trustworthy. I’m not a fucking idiot. I want that money and I’m not waking up tomorrow with no shoes.”

Sam blinked in surprise. “Why would we want your shoes?” He looked down at them. They were tattered and filthy, barely even in one piece.

Castiel shot him an amused glance. “You’re a little old to be college boys, but I can’t be too careful. It’s a hazing ritual at one of the campuses round here – pick up a rent boy, knock him out, steal his shoes. They hang them in their dorm rooms or something, I dunno. Never looked into it. But I’m sick of losing shoes.” His expression darkened and he looked away. “I’m sick of the other stuff they do, too. Some of those guys just can’t keep their hands to themselves.”

“That sucks,” Dean said after a pause, looking appalled. “Can’t you go to the cops or something?”

Castiel laughed out loud at that, and it was a horrible sound. “Yeah? You think the cops give a fuck about guys like me? I’ve tried. They don’t give a damn. They think you sell yourself so you deserve what you get. Even the cops that do treat you like a human being are so overworked they haven’t got time for you. And I’m just one of thousands, sunshine.”

Sam thought back to the police file they’d read. Castiel had reported two rapes back in the nineties but no charges had ever been brought. He wondered how many times it had happened since then, and how often Castiel had had to move on and get on with his life because there was no point in reporting it. It made him feel nauseous. Life was tough on the streets – people were violent and cruel. Castiel had obviously discovered this for himself.

_Because Zachariah wanted him to. It’s not real. Get a grip, Sam._

Dean was obviously thinking the same thing. “This isn’t your life, you know,” he said firmly, leaning forward. He tried to fix Castiel with his gaze but failed; Castiel simply looked down at his burger.

“I wish it wasn’t,” Castiel said bitterly, with a shudder.

“We’re not yanking your chain here, man. You’re an angel.”

Unexpectedly, Castiel giggled. His face crinkled up and he covered his mouth with one hand as he coughed, then he giggled again. His fingernails were dirty. “I can absolutely assure you that I’m no angel,” he chuckled, wiping crumbs off his lip. “I’m about as far from an angel as it’s possible to be.”

“That’s because someone’s made you that way,” Sam said urgently, but the look Castiel gave him reeked of _oh, please._

Dean went for it. He told Castiel the full story: how there were monsters and demons and angels in the world, how he and his brother had spent their lives hunting them. He talked about Lilith and Lucifer and the apocalypse. Whenever he faltered Sam picked up the thread and carried on, explaining how Castiel had disobeyed and turned his back on Heaven and been punished for it. Dean’s voice turned bitter and scathing as he talked about Zachariah. Meanwhile, Castiel finished his burger and drank his coffee, staring at them through wide eyes, clearly disbelieving every damn word. But he didn’t get up to go. He was inside and warm; he had food and money on the way. He was humoring them. He was listening because he’d said he would, but nothing was sparking for him. There was no recognition on his face. He thought it was all a merry little tale – he had no idea how wrong he was.

“I know you don’t believe us,” Dean was saying, as Castiel finished his drink and put the cup back on the table. “But please, can’t you just think about it? Look at me, man – don’t I look the tiniest bit familiar?”

Castiel snorted. “You, no. Him–” he jabbed a finger at Sam, “Yes.”

“Really?” Sam asked, amazed.

“You remember him but not me?” Dean’s voice sounded so hurt it was almost comical.

Castiel shrugged, wiping grease off his fingers. “Not in the sense that I’ve met him before, no. But I’ve met his type. Jocks who rely on their muscles to get them what they want.” He gave Sam an appraising glance. “Look at you. Seven feet tall and as wide as a house. I bet nobody ever says no to you, do they? You or your fists.”

Sam suddenly remembered how Castiel had looked at him when they’d climbed out of the car, with that odd expression on his face. Up until then, he hadn’t really seen how large Sam was – it was hard to tell when he was sitting down. He’d been intimidated. How many times had he tangled with guys who’d used their strength against him?

“I’m not like that,” he explained reasonably, keeping his voice calm. “I mean, I can hold my own in a fight, yeah. I have to. You heard what we do, how we live. But I’m not a bully.”

Castiel nodded. “If you say so,” he said, sounding utterly unconvinced. “But there’s one thing I do know for sure: I. Am. Not. An. Angel.”

“What about dreams?” Dean asked suddenly, snapping his fingers. “Come on. You can’t tell me you’ve never dreamt about your real life.”

“I dreamt I hooked up with Jared Leto once,” Castiel said airily. “I’d like to think that was my real life.”

“You had these massive wings,” Dean continued, as Sam looked at him sideways. He’d never seen them himself. “You could fly and everything. Don’t you ever dream that you’re flying?”

Castiel’s expression blanked. He fell silent for a few moments, then said in a quiet voice, “Lots of people dream about flying.”

Dean made a triumphant sound. “See? I knew it! Come on, Cas, just think about it and you’ll know it’s true.”

“My name is _Dean,_ ” Castiel said angrily, rising to his feet. “And Dean’s had enough of your crap. I stayed, I listened and that’s it, I’m out of here.” He scooped up the money from the table and put it in his jacket pocket. “You guys are insane, you know that? I have no idea where you’re going with all of this shit but you can just go there without me.”

He took two steps towards the door. Knowing they had no other choice, Sam stood up and blocked his way. Castiel stared up at him and his face fell. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”

“We can’t let you go,” Sam said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. Castiel shucked it off and tried to go round him, but Sam blocked him again. As they moved Dean stood and walked over to the door, checking it was locked, leaning back against it.

“I knew it!” Castiel growled, his face twisting in anger. “I knew it the minute you got out of the car! Guys like you are trouble!”

“We’re trying to help you!”

“I don’t need your help! Let me go!” Castiel tried to push past him again. Sam gripped him by the shoulders and went to push him back as gently as he could, but Castiel surprised him. A fist impacted on Sam’s stomach and he bent double, more out of shock than any real pain, but it was enough of a distraction for his prisoner to get past him. As he gulped in a few breaths with his hands on his knees there was the sound of a scuffle over by the door; when he lifted his head, he saw Dean grappling with Castiel with a look of sheer determination on his face. He grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back and Castiel suddenly screamed for help, his voice more than loud enough to carry through the thin walls and into the world outside.

“Stop… struggling…” Dean grunted, trying to keep him still without hurting him. “For god’s sake, Cas, this is for your own good!”

“My name isn’t _Cas_ , you maniac,” yelled Castiel, and he screamed again. “Somebody help me! Help! Someone get in here and help me!”

Sam straightened and thought quickly, realizing that Dean wouldn’t be able to hold him for long. He darted over to their kit bag, unzipped it and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. They had no choice: they had to stop Castiel leaving and vanishing again. Zachariah had said he was going to die if he didn’t remember who he was, so they had to do everything in their power to remind him. This was life or death, even if Castiel couldn’t see it.

There was an _oof_ of pain and Sam looked up, startled, to see Dean fall to his knees, clutching his groin. Somehow Castiel had managed to kick or possibly punch him, but Sam didn’t have time to analyze his actions. Castiel shoved Dean to one side and reached for the door, still yelling for help, and Sam moved as quickly as he could to stop him.

The handcuff snapped around Castiel’s right wrist with a click. He barely had time to look down at it before Sam had lifted him bodily off the floor and thrown him onto the nearest bed, face down. After some desperate bucking and thrashing Sam managed to pull the cuffed hand out from under Castiel’s body and snapped the other cuff around the wooden frame of the bed, locking him in place. He stood back, panting, as Castiel fought furiously with the metal and wood for a full minute before a coughing fit claimed him and he curled up into a ball, clutching at his chest, flushed and sweating.

“Holy crap,” Dean breathed, coming to stand by Sam’s side. He had a hand pressed against his groin and he looked totally pissed.

“You okay?”

Dean huffed. “Never better. I was overdue for some nut-crunching anyway. It’s been at least six months since someone kneed me in the jewels.”

Castiel regained his breath and looked up at them both, yanking on his cuffs as hard as he could. For a moment Sam thought the wood wouldn’t hold, but despite the cheapness of the motel room, the bed was well-made and seemed sturdy enough to take his weight.

“Let me go,” Castiel said, wheezing a little. “You don’t want to do this. Really. Please, let me go.”

“We’re not going to hurt you,” Dean assured him, before adding somewhat ruefully, “even though you’re quite happy to hurt objects that are precious to me.”

“Help!” screamed Castiel again, as though Dean hadn’t spoken. “Somebody help me!”

Sam was just thinking that perhaps they should gag him when the music that had been blaring out of the room a few doors down suddenly increased in volume, drowning out his cries. Sam shot a glance at his brother, then back down at Castiel. “I don’t think anybody’s coming,” he said flatly. “I guess they hear people yelling all the time around here.”

Castiel coughed again and dropped his head. His fist clenched in the cuffs and for a moment, just a moment, his body sagged completely, like he was giving up. He raised his free hand to his eyes and rubbed them, then slapped his palm down on his knee and gazed up at them fiercely. “What do you want me to do?” he growled. “Come on, out with it. I’ll do whatever you want. I don’t care. It can’t be worse than anything I’ve done before. Just don’t hurt me, okay? Please. You don’t have to pay me but please, don’t hurt me.”

Dean sat on the edge of the mattress with a sigh. “How many times do we have to say this, man? We’re not going to hurt you. We just want you to realize who you are.”

“Okay, so I’m an angel. I believe you. Now what? Are you going to let me go? I’ll fly away. I’ve got wings under my jacket. If you let me go I’ll show them to you.”

“It doesn’t work like that…” But Dean didn’t finish because Castiel tried to punch him, kicking and flailing with his legs and free fist, the bedsprings creaking and twanging with the sudden movement. Dean moved away quickly, startled, and then Castiel folded over in another coughing fit that suddenly had Sam worried. Now he thought about it, he’d been coughing since they’d picked him up, hadn’t he?

“That sounds nasty,” he observed, once Castiel got his breath back. “That could be pneumonia, man. We’ve got some antibiotics around here somewhere if you want us to help you.”

“Yeah, ’cause all I need now is for you guys to shoot me full of drugs,” Castiel snapped bitterly. “I’ve already told you that you can do anything. You don’t have to dope me up. I won’t fight you – I’ll do anything you want. Just let me go afterwards. Come on, please!”

“This isn’t about sex,” Dean said awkwardly. “Seriously, get your mind out of the gutter.”

“Then what the hell do you _want from me?_ ” Castiel yelled. And then his eyes fell on something and he froze. His mouth opened into a tiny ‘o’ and he went completely white, his breath catching in his throat. Puzzled, Sam followed his gaze… and saw their kit bag lying on the next bed. The bag that was open because Sam had reached inside it for the handcuffs. The bag full of guns and machetes and knives. The bag that, to the eyes of someone who wasn’t a hunter, must have looked like the kind of bag a serial killer would carry with them to torture and carve up their victims.

“Crap,” Dean hissed, zipping it up hurriedly, but the damage had been done. Castiel backed up the mattress until he was huddled in the corner where the bed met the wall. He drew his knees in under his chin and stared at the Winchesters in horror, clearly putting two and two together and making _these guys are going to kill me._

“We use that stuff to hunt,” Sam said hastily.

“Honestly, it’s not what you think,” Dean added.

“We’re not going to hurt you, we swear,” Sam continued, holding his hands out in a gesture of peace.

Castiel didn’t say a word, but the terrified look on his face was enough to tell them they still had a lot of work to do.

 

~ ~ ~

 

 

~ ~ ~


	2. It’s Not Easy Being Dean continued

  


 

 

 

~ ~ ~

 

They spent the next few hours talking to him. Begging him. Pleading with him to remember something, _anything_ , but Castiel couldn’t. Zachariah had been right: he’d done a good job here. He’d whipped up a new life for the angel that was utterly convincing, the kind of life that had no cracks in it, no logic puzzles to cause any kind of doubt. Every second of it was perfectly, terribly real to its subject, right down to the dirt under his nails and the scars on his body. Castiel’s jacket sleeve had ridden up as he’d struggled with the cuffs and Sam had been sickened by the ugly white stripes on his forearm, regular and precise, evidence that he’d been self-harming at some point in his miserable life. He didn’t want to think about the other parts of his body which had suffered injuries over the years, or how. Or, almost as bad, the damage that had been done to Castiel’s mind. He was fucked-up beyond belief, a shell of his former self, oblivious to the fact that all his pain was totally imaginary.

He never stopped fighting them, though. Despite his obvious fear, he still held his head up high and jutted his chin out defiantly, swearing and cursing at them even as his hands shook and the cuffs clinked against the bed post. He knew he was outgunned but he wasn’t going down quietly, and – as frustrating as it was that he wouldn’t believe them – there was something comforting about the way he refused to give in.

Castiel wouldn’t have given in, either.

“So you’re saying I’m really some guy with a wife and a kid who turned his body over to God?” Castiel was saying, incredulous, as Dean perched just out of reach on the second bed. “How many people am I supposed to _be_?”

“I think I’m just confusing you now,” Dean muttered wearily. “Look, that part probably doesn’t matter. What matters is that we’re your friends and you really have to trust us.”

“You have me handcuffed to a bed and you won’t let me go,” Castiel snorted. “You’re not my friends. You’re my kidnappers.”

“It’s for your own good,” Dean said sharply.

“There’s nothing ‘good’ about you keeping me here!”

“Zachariah said you’d die if we couldn’t make you remember,” Sam reminded him, feeling as though he’d been arguing in circles for weeks. “We can’t let you go. You’ve got to understand that.”

“All I understand is that you’ve got a bag full of fucking _knives_ and you’re holding me prisoner. Call me paranoid, but this isn’t going to end well for me, is it?” He yanked on his cuffs again, wincing as it probably hurt him.

“Those knives aren’t for you,” Dean began, but Castiel cut him off.

“I forgot, silly me. They’re for the ghosts and the vampires and the demons.”

Dean shrugged. “Most knives don’t actually affect ghosts and vampires and demons. We’ve got other weapons to deal with them. Salt and sigils, things like that.”

Castiel blinked at him, shaking his head. “How do you make stuff up that quickly?”

“I don’t make it up. It’s the truth.”

“There’s no such thing as monsters,” Castiel said with absolute conviction, before frowning and adding, “Unless they’re human. I’ve met enough of those.”

Sam ran a hand through his hair and tried to collect his thoughts. He hadn’t slept for two days and he was getting annoyed with this. If Castiel couldn’t remember, fair enough. They’d have to come up with another plan to save him. Somehow. All he knew was that they weren’t achieving anything here. “Okay, so we’re not getting anywhere,” he pointed out, as Dean picked his feet up off the floor and sat cross-legged on the bed. Castiel was still bundled up in his corner, shaky and pale but admirably defiant given the circumstances.

“Too right we’re not getting anywhere,” Dean echoed with a derisive sniff. “This is ridiculous.”

“Let me go,” Castiel demanded, because he hadn’t said it for at least five minutes now.

“We need to do something else to jog your memory. There has to be another way.”

Castiel looked up at him and said sarcastically, “Get me a harp. If I can play it, I’ll know I’m an angel.”

Dean chuckled. “You’ve got more of a sense of humor than Cas ever had.”

“Really? I’m glad you think I’m funny, because I’m not finding this funny at all.”

Sam was suddenly desperately, achingly tired. He opened his mouth to speak and the words came falling out before he even had time to catch them. “Dammit, Cas, will you just shut up and listen already? I can’t believe you’re fighting to hang onto this shitty life of yours when we’re offering you something that’s so much better!”

“Sam,” Dean warned.

“You’re offering me madness!” Castiel snapped back, his face creasing in anger.

“It’s the _truth!_ ” Sam returned, totally losing it. “Why can’t you see that we’re offering you a way out? Look at you! Look at what you’ve been doing! None of this is real but you won’t let it go!”

“Don’t you think I WANT TO?” Castiel yelled, and there was such fury in his voice that Sam actually took a step backwards. “Don’t you think that I _want_ to think I’m special, that I’m more than this, that I’m on a mission from God and my life isn’t this hideous, crappy mess? Don’t you think I prayed to God when I was a kid and learned the hard way that he was never going to answer me? How can I believe what you’re telling me when I know for a fact that he’s not out there?”

“He is,” Sam told him with conviction, ignoring how Dean rolled his eyes. “He’s out there. He’s just… lost, is all. Like you’re lost.”

“He’s not out there,” Castiel said firmly. “You wanna know how I know? Because God wouldn’t have killed my mom when I was four years old. He wouldn’t have left me and my little brother alone with a father who went out of his head with grief. He wouldn’t have let him treat us the way he treated us. No God would ever let that happen.”

“That’s _our_ life,” Dean told him gently, leaning forward. “I know you don’t believe us but it really is. Your mom died on Sammy’s six-month birthday, right? In a fire in his nursery?”

Castiel’s eyes widened in shock. “How did… you couldn’t know that…”

“It’s what happened to us, Cas. I carried Sam out of the house myself. And then our dad went looking for revenge. He took us on the road, hunting those monsters we told you about, and he trained us to do it too. That’s why we’re here.”

But Castiel’s expression changed as Dean spoke, his eyes narrowing. “No. My father was a preacher. He said God killed my mom. And then he started drinking.”

Dean sat back, surprised, while Sam frowned. Zachariah had decided to get creative.

“He hid it from his parishioners,” Castiel continued, his voice dark and bitter, totally unaware that the story he was reciting never happened. “He drank and drank and drank and he’d hit us every day. He’d take us to church and sit us in the front row and tell everybody that we were always fighting each other and that’s why we were covered in bruises. And people believed him, because he was a man of God. Those stupid, stupid people believed him.” He lowered his eyes to the mattress. “And then he decided that beating us wasn’t enough. I was ten the first time he fucked me, and he didn’t stop until I was eighteen.”

Sam had absolutely no idea what to say to that, horrified beyond belief, but Dean got there first. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, his voice wavering. “I know this doesn’t really help, but… it never happened. It wasn’t real.”

“When Sammy hit eleven he decided he wanted him, too,” Castiel continued, still not looking up. “But I wouldn’t let him touch him. I fought him as hard as I could, but after a while I realized that the only way I could keep Sam safe was to stop fighting, completely. I told him he could do what he wanted with me and I’d never fight back. So he did. I let him take me for years and I pretended I enjoyed it, just to keep him away from my brother. And you know what happened after that?” His voice hitched. “Sam ran away. I still don’t know how he did it, but he found a bunch of money and he ran away as soon as he could. I would’ve been happy for him, I really would, because all I wanted was for him to be safe and happy, but you know what? He left me a note. He left me a note and he told me I made him sick. He told me I should be punished for leading our father on, that everything that happened was my fault. He thought I _enjoyed_ it, and he ran away and I never saw him again.”

He stopped and a silence fell that was so heavy Sam felt himself start to sweat. Castiel looked up at Dean, his eyes red and filled with tears. “And then you tell me it’s not real. You tell me all of that didn’t happen. You tell me that none of it means anything, that all of this is just some practical joke being played on me by an angel. You tell me that actually I’m not just some guy who got fucked by his father and then spent the rest of his life being fucked by strangers. Don’t you see how cruel this is? I don’t understand what you’re doing here, I really don’t, but you’re sick! I _want_ that other life you’re talking about, but I can’t have it! You’re torturing me! I’ve had some sick shit done to me over the years, but this is just…” He stopped, shaking his head, and looked down again. “Just let me go. Please. I can’t handle this any more.”

Nobody said anything. Sam turned and walked over to the window, staring out at the morning sunlight with his thoughts a world away. He couldn’t believe that Zachariah had done this. He knew he was sick and twisted and didn’t give a damn about anybody – the guy had wanted the apocalypse, for crying out loud – but to deliberately mess with Castiel like this? To convince him his life was this bad, that his own father had…

There was a sudden, sharp knock on the door. “Housekeeping,” called a cheerful voice.

Dean moved like lightning, throwing himself on the bed and covering Castiel’s mouth with his hand in the blink of an eye. Castiel moaned into his palm, fighting to get free, and Sam was only barely quick enough to cover up the sound with a frantic, “We don’t need you today!”

“No problem,” chirruped the maid, and Sam watched as she strolled past the window with her arms full of towels. He waited a little while in case she doubled back before sighing in relief. He turned back to the bed and watched as Castiel fell still under Dean’s grip, his face red and his chest heaving; then his eyes rolled and Sam snapped, “Dean! Let him go, he can’t breathe!”

Dean had been staring at the door. He dropped his hand in an instant and Castiel coughed and gasped pathetically, his body unmoving on the mattress. “Hey, hey,” Dean said quickly, placing a hand on his chest. “Are you good? Come on, it’s okay… breathe, man…”

It took a few minutes but Castiel’s breathing evened out. He lay staring at the ceiling, looking utterly wretched, chest rattling with every breath. Sam didn’t have to be a doctor to know that he wasn’t well. Spending every night on the streets, eating badly, not getting enough sleep or vitamins or being able to afford to get checked out – it would be easy to pick up a lung infection or pneumonia or a million other illnesses living his life like that. He might only have been in this existence for a few weeks but Zachariah hadn’t skimped on the details.

“You need to see a doctor,” he told him firmly, gently nudging Dean to one side and pressing his hand to Castiel’s forehead. It was warm, but nothing bad. And he’d just been fighting with Dean, too, so he was sweaty and shaking.

“You willing to pay?” Castiel asked him miserably, flinching at the contact. “Can’t exactly afford health insurance on my salary. And the free clinic shut down two years back.”

“If you stop fighting us we’ll look after you,” Sam promised, already knowing it was a lost cause.

Castiel coughed again and grimaced. “Or you could just let me go and let me take my chances.”

“Sorry.”

Castiel fell silent. After a few moments he tugged listlessly on his cuffs before saying wearily, “I need to use the can.”

Ah. Well, it had to happen sooner or later. Sam exchanged a meaningful look with his brother, who raised his eyebrows. “What?” Dean said gruffly. “I’m not holding a bottle out for him to pee into. We can let him go for a few minutes, can’t we?”

Sam vanished into the bathroom. The window was too small to represent a flight risk, so he looked around instead for anything that could be used as a weapon. He removed every item he could see – shaving foam, razors, even their toothbrushes – and brought them into the bedroom before reaching into his pocket for the key to the cuffs. Castiel watched him intently as he bent to unlock the one around the post, but Sam was prepared for a sudden attack and glared him into submission.

Castiel shucked himself off the bed and walked stiffly into the bathroom. He locked the door behind him but Sam had already inspected it; he could kick it open in a heartbeat. Castiel must have known but he locked it anyway. It was a small gesture from someone who clearly felt helpless.

“We need to think of something to do here, Sammy,” Dean said quietly, pacing the room.

Sam bowed his head, thinking furiously. “All I can think is that we hypnotize him somehow. Maybe then he’d remember, like when we tried it with Anna.”

“Great idea,” Dean said sarcastically. “I’ll just run out and find us a psychic hypnotist who won’t mind getting to work on a former-angel male prostitute shackled to a bed.”

“Maybe we could try it?” Sam ventured. “We’ve seen how Pamela did it. It couldn’t hurt to give it a go.”

“I doubt he’d be receptive even if you did go all _Mentalist_ on him,” Dean said with a sigh, folding his arms and leaning on a wall. “I’ll say one thing for this version of Cas – he’s a fighter.”

“I suppose he had to be with the life Zachariah gave him.”

Dean closed his eyes. “Jesus. I know most of it’s just imaginary, but how many weeks has he been out here living it?”

Sam stared at the bathroom door, hearing the sound of water splashing in the basin behind it. “I hope it wasn’t long,” he said fervently.

“He was a virgin, Sam. He told me that himself. What if he…”

His voice trailed off. Sam couldn’t look at him. He was thinking it, too: how many times had Castiel been picked up by strangers before they arrived? How many men had he fallen to his knees for? Had anybody actually had sex with him? It was a horrible, terrible thought; it was rape, pure and simple, and all because Zachariah wanted to punish him. And there was still a death sentence hanging over Castiel’s head, too, even though they didn’t know exactly what the angel had planned for him. _He dies for good,_ Zachariah had said. _I’ll make sure he stays dead._

“We’re just going to have to keep convincing him,” he muttered after a pause, rubbing his temples weakly. “There’s nothing else we can do.”

The bathroom door opened. Castiel stood there in his unfamiliar outfit, water dripping from his chin, long blond hair tucked behind his ears. He looked scrawny and vulnerable, pale and scared, but his eyes gleamed with defiance. He was rubbing at the wrist with the empty cuff dangling from it and he glanced nervously at the bed. “You don’t have to lock me up,” he said quietly. “I won’t fight you any more.”

Dean let out a breath. “I wish we could believe you, but you’re an ornery son of a bitch, Cas.”

“My name is Dean,” Castiel told him archly, narrowing his eyes.

“Whatever,” Dean said wearily.

And then Castiel moved faster than it seemed possible to move, so fast that he might as well have been his angel self flitting from one spot to another in the blink of an eye. One second he was standing by the bathroom door and the next he’d thrown himself across the room to the kit bag lying on the spare bed, zipping it open before either brother could react and grabbing at the first weapon his fingers fell on. Sam and Dean stepped forward at precisely the same moment as Castiel pulled the Colt from the bag and aimed it squarely between Sam’s eyes.

“Get back,” he threatened.

Stunned, Sam swallowed hard and raised his hands before him. “Okay, think about what you’re doing here.”

“Think about what _I’m_ doing? You two nutjobs kidnap me and handcuff me to a bed and ask me to think about what _I’m_ doing?”

“Put it down,” Dean warned, taking a step closer. Castiel instantly turned the gun on him. Dean was blocking the door; Castiel’s eyes flashed as he realized it.

“Get out of my way,” he growled, and he sounded so determined and Castiel-like that the hair on Sam’s neck stood up.

“That’s loaded, you know,” Dean informed him. “If you pull that trigger you’ll kill me. Is that what you want to do?”

Castiel pointed the gun at Dean’s thigh, the empty handcuff swinging from his wrist. “I don’t have to shoot you in the head. Now get away from that door.”

“We can’t let you go, Cas. We’re trying to help you.”

“You’re insane!”

“No. We’re your friends.” To Sam’s surprise, Dean lowered his hands and took a step forward. “Come on, man! Think about it! Really, really think about it! You know us and you like us. We’re friends. It’s the truth. Why else would we have done all this?”

Castiel raised the gun and pointed it straight at Dean’s heart, but he didn’t speak. His hand was shaking. Sam felt sweat run down his neck.

“Your name is Castiel and you’re my friend,” Dean said softly, taking another step forward. The gun bumped his chest, but he didn’t look down at it.

“No,” Castiel moaned, and his face went so pale that Sam was suddenly convinced that he was going to pass out.

“It’s true. Look in my eyes, Cas. Come on. Look at me.”

And to Sam’s surprise, Castiel looked. He stared at Dean through wide eyes as his hand shook so much the gun wavered all over his chest, but Dean ignored it. He stared back, his expression warm and hopeful, and nobody spoke for a full minute; the only sound in the room was Castiel’s chest wheezing.

“You won’t shoot me,” Dean said firmly, breaking the spell. “I know you won’t. You’re Castiel.”

Castiel shook his head, his eyes abruptly filling with tears. “No, I’m not,” he moaned. “I’m Dean Winchester and I don’t have any friends, let alone you.”

And with that he lifted the Colt and smacked Dean across the jaw with it, so hard that Dean crumpled to the floor from the momentum. Castiel leapt over him and opened the door as Sam jumped forward, but he had to duck when Castiel swung the gun around and pointed it at him as though he meant to use it. By the time Sam looked up again, he’d gone.

“You good?” he asked Dean hurriedly, jumping to his feet.

“Don’t let him get away!” Dean snapped, cradling his jaw and shaking his head. “Go after him!”

But by the time Sam got outside and searched, it was too late. Castiel had fled.

And what’s more, he’d taken the Colt with him.

 

~ ~ ~

 

 

~ ~ ~


	3. It’s Not Easy Being Dean continued

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winchesters are given a mission: they have to save Castiel. The trouble is, Castiel isn’t really Castiel any more…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during season five. This is a hooker!Cas fic which somehow doesn’t contain any sex (yeah, I know, how the hell did that happen?), but don’t let that fool you: it’s still pretty dark at times and there’s sexual talk. Be warned for all sorts of triggers such as non-con and child abuse (both implied) and, well, anything associated with a life on the street. Also, WHUMP. It’s Sam’s POV, by the way, and pre-Dean/Castiel.

 

 

~ ~ ~

 

They searched and searched but Castiel had disappeared. He knew the area better than they did and had obviously gone to ground – who wouldn’t, after what they’d put him through? But he had the Colt. This wasn’t just a case of finding him so that they could save him: they had to get back one of their most important weapons. This was serious on two counts.

But they still couldn’t find him.

Six hours after they gave up their search for the day, as Dean was resting an icepack on his jaw and Sam was finally, grumpily considering getting some sleep, Dean’s cell rang. He stared at the name in the display and announced gruffly, “Crap. Three guesses who’s decided to do some gloating.”

“How’s it going, boys?” said Zachariah through the speaker a moment later.

“You are one demented, twisted, evil motherfucker,” Dean snapped, throwing the icepack on the floor and jumping to his feet. “I can’t believe you did that to him. This is a whole new level of fucked-up, even for you.”

“I didn’t invent his life, Dean. His new existence is just one of six-point-seven billion variations I could have chosen for him. You humans are the ones who live like this; you’re the twisted ones here, not me.”

“When you’re through being self-righteous and smug, how about you show some fucking _mercy_ and help him out?”

Zachariah sighed. “You really don’t get it, do you? This is for you to fix, guys. You have to use your gray matter for once. It’s about time you learned that us angels can’t keep clicking our fingers and making everything better.”

Sam leant towards the cell so Zachariah could hear him speak. “He doesn’t remember us, just like you said he wouldn’t. How the hell are we supposed to do anything about that? This is an impossible challenge! You _want_ us to fail, don’t you? You don’t give a damn if this is fair or not, only that it amuses you!”

“You think this amuses me?” Zachariah hissed, his voice turning low and dangerous. “You think the fact one of Heaven’s most loyal and steadfast angels betrayed us to hook up with you two mortals is something I find _funny?_ This doesn’t amuse me, Sam. This is the punishment Castiel deserves for a crime he shouldn’t have committed. By rights he should be dead but some of the archangels weren’t too keen on the idea… like I said, he’d only come back, and that makes them nervous. This way he gets to experience a few things. I’m considering it a re-education. If he gets to the end and dies a mortal death, then so be it. If he doesn’t, he’ll never be the same again. Either way, I get my point across.”

“Well, that makes it all better,” Dean said sarcastically. “Just as long as you get your point across. He gets assaulted and raped and traumatized but you’re making a point, so that’s perfectly cool.”

“This is all down to you, Dean,” Zachariah said firmly, and Sam could just imagine the smug look on his face as he spoke. “You were the one who corrupted him. You turned him from his brothers. You set him on this path. That’s why I thought it fitting he take your name – you made him human. It’s only fair.”

Dean opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked stricken.

“Good luck finding him, boys. Next time you see him I think you’ll realize just how seriously I’m taking this little game of ours. And no– ” he paused for emphasis, “this isn’t amusing to me. None of this is amusing. But it’s certainly… illuminating.”

The line went dead.

“It’s not your fault,” Sam said quickly, as Dean stared down at the phone in his hand. “You know that, right? Cas made his own choices.”

Dean shook his head and sat down on the bed. “Yeah, he did. But I pushed him into making them.” He rested his hand on his bruised jaw and his eyes fluttered closed for a few seconds. “Sammy, if we do win here and we do get him back, do you think Zachariah’s right? Will all this change him? I don’t see how anybody could go through what he’s going through and not be different afterwards. What if… what if he does blame me?”

“He’s _Cas,_ ” Sam said forcefully. “He did all of this because the angels have given up on God and he hasn’t. It’s not just you, Dean. He did it because it was the right thing to do.”

Dean didn’t reply. He looked down at the phone and placed it on the mattress beside him. Sam took a deep breath and scrubbed at his eyes, suddenly so exhausted he could barely think. “We need sleep. Let’s figure out what to do in the morning. I’m beat.”

“So Cas gets to spend another night on the streets,” Dean said, his voice bitter.

“Dean…”

“I know, I know. There’s nothing we can do.” He looked up at his brother and frowned. “But we’re going to find him, and I’m going get him to remember if I have to kill him to do it.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

They knew that Castiel would sell the Colt. It was an antique; you didn’t have to be an expert to figure that out, and he clearly needed the money. Using as many contacts as they could string together – and could trust – the brothers put the hunting community on alert, telling them to be on the look-out. They contacted people who bought and sold guns and told them to keep their eyes peeled. They did everything they could to track it down and then all they could do was wait.

They filled the time searching the streets for Castiel, but they never saw him. He didn’t show up in the area he usually worked and so they tried other spots known for harboring prostitutes, but with no success. It didn’t help, of course, that Castiel worked the streets at night when it was easy to melt into the shadows, ducking into alleyways or side streets where he couldn’t be observed. The sidewalk was almost always crowded, often in the middle of the night, but Sam was tall enough to see from a distance and that put a spanner in the works when it came to trying to find their quarry on foot. And it also didn’t help that the Impala was so conspicuous; whenever they drove along Santa Monica Boulevard they were visible a mile off. One day Dean hit upon the idea of searching in the most mundane rental car they could find, but it didn’t make any difference. Castiel was nowhere to be seen.

Three weeks later they were called away by a hunt. Lives were being lost and they had no option but to drive to Sacramento and do what they did best; Sam wouldn’t admit it, but it was a welcome distraction from their fruitless search. They hightailed it back to Hollywood straight afterwards, spending another four days turning up nothing before Bobby called them with details of a ghost which needed its ass kicking only a few hours away.

And so it went until six entire weeks had passed. Six weeks in which anything could have happened to Castiel; six weeks in which Dean grew more and more haunted; six weeks in which Sam despaired over his brother’s moods and focused on how much he wanted to murder Zachariah for inflicting all of this on their friend.

Then came the phone call.

~ ~ ~

 

Jack Steadman was a hunter Bobby had recommended to help them in their search for the Colt, and with good reason: he knew the location of every mystical artefact on the West coast. He’d been intrigued to hear about the gun and put the feelers out among every person he dealt with in California. To their surprise, when the Colt finally did turn up it was at a gun shack only twenty miles from West Hollywood. Castiel hadn’t travelled far to offload it, which suggested that he didn’t have the means to. Perhaps he didn’t have a car. It was good news; it meant he hadn’t skipped town. Not yet, anyway.

“Do you want the good news or the bad news?” asked Jack as they walked into his office. He ran a map-making company, running his accounts as clean as a whistle. He was one hunter who didn’t let his work interfere with making an honest living.

“These days it’s nothing but bad news,” Dean replied. “Give us some joy first.”

Jack opened his desk drawer and pulled out the Colt. Sam felt his heart skip in relief. “Here you go, guys. Got Dave to hand it over to me good as gold. Didn’t demand a cent for it. I told him it was stolen from the Russian mafia and he nearly crapped his pants trying to get rid of it.”

“Hey, baby,” Dean whistled, taking it and turning the weapon over in his hand. “Boy, did we miss you.”

“Did your friend say anything about the guy who sold it to him?” Sam asked hopefully.

Jack nodded. “He said he came into his store four days ago. Total wreck, apparently. Dave sees low-lifes like you wouldn’t believe in that place, but he said this guy looked like hell warmed over, so it had to be bad. But he still gave Dave a hard time, so he can’t have been that sick. He wouldn’t sell him the gun for anything less than five hundred bucks, and was pretty pissed Dave wouldn’t give him any more.”

Sam snorted. “Cas had a point. That gun was made by Samuel Colt himself – it’s priceless. Even taking away the fact it kills demons.”

“Can your friend tell us anything about where Cas is now?” Dean queried. “We need to find him, Jack. Especially if he’s sick.”

“That’s the good news I had for you. Dave says he left the store and he saw him getting on a bus across the street. The bus was going to La Brea.”

Sam frowned. “You’re kidding.”

“He’s still working the same streets and we haven’t seen him,” Dean breathed, throwing Sam a frustrated look. “How the hell is he doing it?”

“He’s good at spotting us, I guess.”

Jack cleared his throat. “Okay, so there’s the bad news as well.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Go on. Hit us.”

“The day after Dave bought the gun – about two hours after I’d picked it up – Dave says some guys came in looking for it. There were three of them and they roughed him up pretty bad.”

“They knew about the Colt?” Dean asked, surprised.

“Oh yeah. But they weren’t really after the gun. They wanted your friend.” Jack folded his arms. “They kept asking about the ‘angel’. And when I visited Dave in the hospital that night, he was babbling about how they all had black eyes. Like, totally black. Every inch of them.”

Sam stared at him in shock.

“Aw shit,” said Dean. “That’s all we need.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

They went back to Santa Monica Boulevard and started hassling people. This was getting desperate – there were demons out there now, demons wanting to get their hands on a fallen angel who had _no idea_ what they were. Castiel was in more danger than ever, and if the brothers had to rattle a few cages to get results then that’s just the way it had to be. They cornered hustlers and homeless people, streetwalkers and pimps, gang-members selling drugs and local residents who at least tried to help, thinking they were cops who were going to clean up their street.

Nothing. Either people genuinely failed to recognize Castiel or they knew him and were keeping quiet. After two days of pointless, frustrating nothingness, Sam would have screamed except that he was too busy waiting for Dean to do it first.

It rained on the third night for the first time since they’d first arrived in Los Angeles all those weeks ago, only heavier. It poured from the sky in torrents, effectively cleansing the sidewalks of not just dust and dirt but also people. Nobody wanted to stand outside in weather like this. Nobody except two guys trying to find their friend. Sam watched as Dean stared down at the crumpled mugshot of Castiel in his hand before folding it and tucking it into his pocket to keep it dry. Neither of them had umbrellas and the rain was cold – it was night, after all – but it didn’t matter. They had a job to do.

“Happy hunting,” Dean said hollowly, and crossed the street.

Sam sighed and wiped wet hair from his eyes. He was starting to wonder if all of this was part of Zachariah’s plan; if the angel was deliberately keeping Castiel undercover for some reason. Maybe he wanted the demons to find him? Maybe he wanted them to kill him? But then again, that would be counter-productive. There was no point in Castiel dying alone. Zachariah wanted the Winchesters to figure out a way to save him or, failing that, he at least wanted them to watch him die. He was sick like that. Whatever was going on here, Sam had a feeling they were being manipulated, but he had no idea why.

He searched for an hour, randomly investigating back streets and alleyways, store doorways and fire escapes, but all he found was trash, rats and graffiti. He’d come to know many of the homeless men and women living on the streets over the last few weeks but even they were missing tonight. When it rained in LA, it seemed as though everybody ran for cover.

Maybe not everybody. Sam reached the end of the block he’d been searching and saw a guy standing under a bus shelter who he knew was a hustler – he’d spoken to him several times before. Wouldn’t hurt to try again. He flicked dripping hair out of his eyes and approached him, seeing the guy’s gaze settle on him hopefully before recognition set in and his face fell.

“Well, look at you, sweetheart. Ain’t you got a home to go to on a night like this?”

Sam gave him one of his most disarming smiles. “You know I’m on a mission.”

“Sure do.” The guy was in his twenties, dark-skinned and dark-eyed, with dreadlocks that seemed impervious to the rain and a green t-shirt that glowed neon-bright under the sodium streetlamps. He was a heroin junkie – Sam had figured that out the first time he’d met him – and there was a harshness to his face that warned him not to trust him. His words were friendly but his eyes weren’t.

“Still lookin’ for your friend?” the guy said.

Sam held out the fake FBI card with the photograph on it. “Wanna take another look? Please, man, we’re getting desperate now. He’s in trouble and we need to help him.”

“All the dudes round here’s in trouble, sweetheart. That’s kind of the way this place rolls. Trouble, trouble, trouble.” He squinted down at the picture in the dim light. “Y’know, he’s startin’ to look a little familiar. But mebbe it’s cause you keep showin’ him to me.”

Sam pulled his wallet out of his pocket meaningfully. “Familiar how?”

The man glanced at the wallet and made a show of studying the photo some more. “Seems to me like this guy should have a scar right about… there.” He pointed at Castiel’s eyebrow. “But that’s all I know for now.”

Sighing, Sam opened his wallet. He had a feeling he’d told this guy the first time that the Castiel on the streets today would have a scar; he was simply repeating what he’d been told already to earn some money. Sam didn’t have a choice, though. He had to follow whatever leads he could get. “Okay, man. Tell me more and I’ll make it worth your while. But please, no bullshit, okay? This guy’s my friend and I’m really worried about him.”

The man handed him back the photo and shot him a surprisingly sympathetic look. “We don’t look out for each other round here. Too much competition. We help out one guy, someone steals right in and grabs our spot while we’re gone. This ain’t no community, ya dig? Guy over there’s prettier than me, I wanna fuck up his face. He gets more johns than I do, I don’t eat. It’s like the law of the fuckin’ jungle round here.”

Sam tried to sound calm. “I’m getting you. Right.”

“This guy? Known him years. Dean, ain’t it? But we ain’t friends. We ain’t ever been friends. He ain’t got no friends and I ain’t got no friends either, not round here, anyways. Friends take food out of your mouth. You want dicks in your mouth to get food in your mouth, and if he gets all the dick, you starve.”

Sam had to look away for a few moments, uncomfortable.

“He really your friend?”

Sam turned back to see the man staring at him appraisingly. “He’s saved my life a few times over,” he affirmed. “I owe him.”

“Right.” The guy blew out a breath and folded his arms across his chest with a shiver. “Man, it’s fucking miserable tonight. No one wants me on a night like this. I ain’t gonna be eatin’ tomorrow at this rate.”

Sam doubted he ate much at all – his veins were probably hungrier than his stomach – but he slid every dollar out of his wallet in any case. He handed him just over a hundred bucks and said pleadingly, “Please. Help me here.”

“Saw him two days ago. He was in a bad way, man. Really, really bad.”

“Bad how?”

“Got his ass whupped by three guys. That’s what he said, anyways, and it looked to be the truth. Blood everywhere and he could barely stand on his own two feet. He wanted some money – said he needed to take off.”

Sam tried to focus. Castiel was hurt. _Shit._ “Did you help him? Did he get the money?”

The guy looked a little uncomfortable. “Fuck, no. I ain’t a bank. I barely had enough to get through the week as it was. He was beggin’, though. He was in a bad, bad way. His face was all cut-up – nobody’s gonna want him lookin’ like that, so he knew he wasn’t gonna earn it.”

Sam couldn’t help himself. “Why didn’t you take him to a hospital?” he growled, suddenly angry on Castiel’s behalf.

“Law of the jungle, man,” came the reply. “Like I said. He ain’t my friend. I don’t owe him. Plus he was nuts, dude, okay? Kept saying the guys that beat on him had black eyes and super-strength or somethin’. They must’ve bashed his head and knocked a few screws loose.”

A wave of dread washed over Sam. The demons had found him. “Where did he go?” he asked urgently, taking the guy by the arm. “Please, tell me you know where he went!”

“He’s around,” the man snapped, pulling his arm free. “He couldn’t have gotten far, not like that. He didn’t even have no shoes, man. He sleeps in one of the alleys off Romaine Street – that way, man. Go that way.”

Sam stalked off without another word. He called Dean and they met up at the end of Romaine just as lightning flashed and thunder rolled in the hills.

“He’s got to be around here,” Sam told him, having to raise his voice to make himself audible above the rain. “We need some flashlights. We have to check every inch of this damn street.”

“If that guy’s telling the truth those demons could still be around,” Dean declared, his face grim. “Normally I’d say we should split up, but three against one isn’t fair. We should stay together.”

Sam nodded. Together they squelched their way along the street, ignoring the odd looks they earned from passing motorists as they explored the area with their flashlights. It was well past three in the morning when they found themselves at the head of an alley beside a veterinary practice.

“You go first,” Dean nudged his brother. “There could be rats down there.”

“Yeah, big, fat, hungry ones,” Sam teased, taking a step forward. “Just waiting to climb up the inside leg of your pants.”

“That’s so not funny, dude. Urgh, they’d be all wet and disgusting with cold feet…”

“Shh!” Sam held up his hand. He’d heard something. They both waited, holding their breath, and then it came again.

Coughing.

“That’s him,” Dean muttered. “Fuck, that’s _him._ ”

Without another word they moved down the alley, peering behind parked cars and dumpsters until they reached the end. There was a huge pile of flattened, sodden cardboard boxes leaning up against a graffiti-strewn wall, several wooden crates in various stages of destruction and an ancient, rusty refrigerator with no door. Water was pouring off a fire escape above their heads and the alleyway stank, but none of that mattered. They’d heard coughing; where was it coming from?

Dean handed Sam his flashlight and squeezed himself between two crates, staring all around him with a frown. He leaned forward, pushed aside the cardboard and his body stiffened. “Sam, I need some light here!”

Sam joined him, shining the flashlight beams in the space behind the cardboard, almost scared of what he was going to find there.

It was Castiel, of course. He didn’t have blond hair any more: it was back to its normal color and it was a lot shorter, although it was hard to tell how short because it was plastered to his scalp from the rain. He was lying in a ball under the cardboard dressed in nothing but the seagull t-shirt and jeans they’d seen him wearing before, both soaked through and clinging to his skin. His feet were bare and there was nothing else under there with him – no jacket, no bags, nothing. He wasn’t even wearing a watch. He was staring at them both with a hand over his eyes to shield them from the light, and he was shaking like a leaf.

“It’s okay,” Dean said quickly, raising his hands to show he wasn’t carrying anything threatening. “It’s alright, Ca… Dean. It’s okay. We’re not going to do anything.”

Castiel lowered his hand to his chest. His head drooped and he coughed alarmingly, curling his fingers in his t-shirt as though it hurt him. It probably did. Sam suddenly realized that the material wasn’t just dark from the rain; there was a lot of blood on there, too. And now he’d dropped his hand from his face Sam could see that Castiel’s left cheek was a mass of blood and bruises. He looked like he’d lost a hell of a lot of weight since they’d last seen him, too, and the way he was shivering made Sam’s heart ache.

But, being Castiel, he wasn’t quite as pathetic as he seemed. “Don’t you two ever give up?” he snapped, between coughs. “What does a guy have to do to get some peace around here?”

“We heard you got attacked,” Sam said, his voice filled with concern.

“You heard right,” Castiel agreed. “And funnily enough, they told me I was an angel living a fake life. Friends of yours?”

“Hell, no,” Dean said vehemently. “Those sonsofbitches were demons. You’re lucky they let you live.”

Castiel lifted his head and stared at him through narrowed eyes. He really needed a shave and looked exhausted, but something about the way he studied Dean was pure, old-style Cas. It was like he was sizing him up or something, analyzing him, trying to figure out what he was saying. Then he dropped his head again and shrugged. “I don’t feel very lucky,” he observed with a sniff, and Sam shot his brother a questioning look.

He hadn’t queried the fact they’d been demons. Was he starting to believe?

Dean stared at him for a few moments before dropping his gaze back down to Castiel. “So, uh… as much as you seem to be having fun out here in the rain, wouldn’t you like to be somewhere dry and warm?”

Castiel shook his head. “I’m fine,” he said in a small voice.

“You don’t look fine,” Sam observed. “Come on, dude. Let us help you.”

“Why?” Castiel asked suspiciously, glaring at him. “What’s in it for you? Oh, wait, I forgot – we’re best buddies, aren’t we?”

“Please, Cas. Let’s get you somewhere safe.”

“I am really starting to hate this stupid fucking angel,” Castiel said bitterly, and then he started to cough again. It sounded terrible; dry and sharp, like it was eating him up from the inside. Each time he breathed in it made Sam’s eyes water.

“Okay, you can be a stubborn asshole all you like, but we’re not going to let you die from pneumonia in some shitty alleyway when we can help,” Dean said firmly. He pushed the cardboard backwards until the whole lot fell to the ground, leaving Castiel exposed to the sky. He dropped to a crouch beside him and took his arm. “Come on, our car’s just down the block. We’ll take you to a motel.”

“So you can cuff me to a bed and try to brainwash me again?” Castiel protested weakly, but he didn’t jerk away when Dean’s arm slid around him. Sam shoved the flashlights in his pocket and bent down to help, pulling Castiel’s arm around his shoulder and supporting his weight as Dean raised him up. Sam felt pretty miserable himself after so many hours wandering around in the rain, but nothing beat how cold and wet Castiel felt against him; he was shivering so hard that the vibrations travelled through Sam’s body and rattled his teeth. He tried to stand but his knees buckled and he collapsed with a soft groan, leaving the brothers to take his weight and hold him firm.

“It’s okay, we got you,” Dean said breathlessly, helping him take a step forward. It probably wasn’t a good idea to walk around in bare feet in that filthy alleyway, but it wasn’t as though Castiel had a choice.

“People always steal my shoes,” he said slowly, staring down at his feet. “Why do people always steal my shoes?”

“Because some guys get all the luck?” Dean replied helpfully.

“That’s me,” Castiel murmured. “Always the lucky one.”

By the time they got him to the car, he’d passed out.

 

~ ~ ~

 

The Buccaneer Motel had been their home for the last few weeks, filthy, noisy trash-heap that it was. They pulled up in the lot and carried the soaking-wet, semi-conscious Castiel to the door of their room without worrying at all about the group of teenage boys huddled by the vending machine chatting. Sam had the feeling he could have tied Castiel to a post and gutted him like a fish and those kids wouldn’t have reacted. They’d probably seen and done worse.

“Get some towels,” Dean ordered his brother as they placed Castiel down on one of the beds. Under a proper light they could see just how bloody he was; his t-shirt was soaked red from top to bottom and his face and arms were scratched and sliced. It looked as though he hadn’t gone down without a fight – his knuckles were bloodied, too – but a human against three demons didn’t stand a chance.

Sam wondered how the hell he’d managed to get away as he grabbed the towels, soaked them in warm water and returned to Dean’s side. Castiel’s eyes were flickering and he rolled his head on the pillow, clearly struggling to wake up, but that wasn’t what made Sam stop dead with a gasp. His lips were blue. He was having so much trouble breathing that his lips were _blue._

“Dean, we should get him to a hospital,” he declared, realizing that they were way out of their depth here.

“We can’t risk it,” Dean replied, his tone all business as he picked up a towel and wiped Castiel’s blood-streaked cheek with it. “Those demons could still be out there. And we have to spend as much time with him as we can to get him to remember. We can’t deal with visiting hour restrictions or some busybody nurse interfering with what we’re doing.”

Sam bit his lip. Dean had a point. He watched as his brother wiped bloody rainwater off Castiel’s face and straightened. “We need to warm him up, but let’s see what those bastards did to him first.”

He lifted the blood-soaked t-shirt at exactly the same moment Castiel’s eyes flicked open. He took one look at Dean’s hands as they tried to remove his clothing and started kicking and punching at him wildly, his eyes wide with terror as he yelled, “No! No, no, no, _no!_ ” Dean barely managed to move in time to prevent his teeth being kicked out as Castiel leapt off the bed, but he was only halfway to the door before he collapsed onto the carpet, coughing and retching so agonizingly that Sam felt sure he was dying. When he dropped to his knees beside him and rolled him over, however, Castiel tried to scratch his eyes out, desperately trying to defend himself against a foe he probably couldn’t even see because his eyes were rolling in his head. All Sam could do was hold his wrists down and try to keep him still as Dean joined him.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Dean said, over and over, but it only took a few seconds for both of them to realize that things weren’t okay. Castiel’s body was arching off the floor as he fought to get air into his lungs. He gasped and wheezed but nothing happened except that his lips turned even bluer. Sam glanced down at the wrists in his grip and saw fingers turning blue, too.

“Dean…” Sam murmured, suddenly really scared. Castiel was suffocating in front of their eyes.

“I know, Sammy,” Dean said quickly, and in one movement he straddled Castiel’s hips and leaned over him. He placed a hand on either side of his face and held him still. “Breathe, man!” he ordered, as Castiel’s eyelids fluttered. “Take it slow, okay? Breathe when I tell you to! Can you hear me? Cas? Dean? Come on, look at me.”

Castiel managed to draw in one horrible-sounding breath and his eyes snapped open. They were wide and totally panicked, staring up at Dean blankly as he struggled to breathe again. “Take it slow,” Dean ordered him, leaning down until his face was only inches away from Castiel’s. “Follow what I’m doing, okay? Breathe in… breathe out… breathe in… breathe out…”

Castiel tried. His eyes filled with tears and his body shook, but he attempted to follow Dean’s instructions as Sam watched. It took what seemed like forever, but Dean was patient and kept talking calmly, easing Castiel back from his panic and getting his breaths into a rhythm that – if not exactly comfortable – at least took away some of the blueness of his skin. After a few minutes Castiel’s body went limp but he continued to stare up at Dean, oblivious to the rest of the world, and Dean didn’t move his hands from his face.

“You’re okay now, aren’t you?” he asked. “That’s it, buddy. You can breathe. It’s all over.”

Castiel kept right on staring at him. Dean stared back. Sam felt a flutter of hope somewhere deep down inside him. Was Castiel remembering who he was?

“Do you know me, Cas?” Dean asked quietly, brushing damp hair from his companion’s forehead with one thumb. “Do you remember me?”

Castiel just blinked.

“I’m your friend. I’ve been your friend for years now. You need to remember me. If you remember me, all this crap will go away. I promise.”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t speak. Dean sighed. “Can you trust me, at least? Come on, man, at least show me some faith here. I’m not going to hurt you. Neither of us are going to hurt you. Do you believe me? Please?”

Castiel’s eyes skipped from Dean to Sam and back again. “I… believe you,” he whispered, so quietly Sam had to lip-read the words.

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean said, smiling.

“My name… is… Dean.”

“It’s a good name,” Dean acknowledged, after a brief pause. “I can see why you want to keep it. Let’s get you back on the bed, okay? I want to check you over.”

They both heaved Castiel onto the mattress as gently as they could, but the movement was enough to start him coughing again. Dean rolled him onto his side and rubbed his back until he calmed down, then laid him flat. Castiel let himself be moved. He seemed too exhausted to object.

“I’m going to take your t-shirt off, okay?” Dean warned, keeping his voice low. “Don’t go panicking on us again. I’m not trying any funny business here. This is all perfectly innocent, right?”

Castiel closed his eyes. Taking it as permission, Dean pulled off the t-shirt. Underneath it sat a hell of a lot of bruising and seven long, ugly slashes that trailed across Castiel’s stomach from one side to the other. For a moment Sam thought an animal had clawed him, but the cuts were too precise. He’d been sliced up with a knife.

“Ow,” he winced, seeing that several of the cuts were pretty badly infected. “What the hell did they do to you, man?”

“They held me down,” Castiel said quietly, opening his eyes again. “They said they were checking to see if I was… really human.”

“Bastards,” Dean grunted, balling up the t-shirt and throwing it across the room angrily. “How did you get away?”

Castiel eyes went vacant for a few seconds. “They just disappeared,” he said, his forehead creasing. “They did… what they did… And then one of them lifted the knife to my throat. I closed my eyes… and when I opened them again, they were gone. It… it was impossible. It was too quick. They couldn’t have moved that fast. I don’t… know… how…”

“Zachariah,” Sam said, figuring it out in a second. “They were going to kill you before Zachariah wanted you to die. So he got rid of them.”

“Guess that fucker’s good for something, huh?” Dean said bitterly.

“Their eyes…” Castiel breathed. “I thought I was seeing things, but then they were so… strong. I kicked one of them really hard in the nuts and he didn’t even flinch… And the things they were saying…” He stopped and frowned. “They really were demons, weren’t they?”

Dean nodded. “Fraid so.”

Castiel let out a breath. “Oh. Well, that’s nice.”

In the awkward silence that followed, Sam picked up a cloth and started to clean up one of the slashes on Castiel’s stomach. A cold hand suddenly fastened around his wrist, holding him still.

“Don’t,” Castiel said wearily.

“It’s okay. I’ll be gentle,” Sam reassured him.

An emotion flickered over Castiel’s face that Sam absolutely didn’t recognize. “Don’t,” he said again. “You need to be careful.”

“I’ve done this before,” Sam told him. “Those wounds need to be cleaned, man. They’re infected.”

Castiel shook his head, squeezing his wrist tight. “No. You don’t understand. You have to be _careful._ ”

Sam frowned at him, confused by the earnestness in his eyes, and then he realized what Castiel was trying to tell him and went ice-cold with shock.

“Oh no,” he breathed, shaking his head. “I’m… I’m so sorry.”

“What?” Dean asked from beside him, oblivious.

Castiel was still staring at Sam as though he was expecting him to do something. Dean looked down at him and up at his brother. “What?” he said again.

Sam tore his eyes away from Castiel’s gaze. “Dean, he… uh…” He stopped, not wanting to say it out loud. _It’s not real,_ he told himself for the millionth time, but right now this felt more real than anything had in months.

“Am I supposed to figure it out using Pictionary clues?” Dean snapped. “Come on, what is it?”

Sam took a deep breath. “Dean, he’s HIV-positive.”

Dean’s face fell a mile. There was a long, long silence. Then he said tightly, “No, he isn’t. This isn’t Castiel. This is the human body Zachariah imprisoned him inside of and it’s not really him. We’re going to help him remember who he is and all of this is going to go away and he’s going to be fine.”

Sam glanced down at Castiel, who was staring at Dean as though he’d gone mad. Dean followed Sam’s gaze and met Castiel’s eyes. “It’s not true,” he told him roughly. “You’re an angel, Cas. You’re not this guy. You’re not sick.”

“Great,” Castiel said wryly. “That’s good. I’ll just get on up and skip out of here, then. That shouldn’t be a problem at all, seeing as I’m a-okay.”

“Your cough,” Sam said suddenly. “It’s not pneumonia, is it?”

Castiel’s eyes rested on him and he shrugged. “I guess not.”

“What is it?” Dean asked, looking confused.

“Pneumo… uh, pneumocystis,” Sam said, after a brief pause as he searched his memory. “It’s a fungus that grows in your lungs that you don’t even know you have until your immune system is compromised. Once that happens, your body can’t fight it any more and you get sick.” He caught his breath and looked down at Castiel. “If your immune system is weak enough to let this happen, then I guess…”

His voice trailed off, leaving the words unsaid: _It’s not just HIV any more. You have AIDS._

Castiel simply looked away. He’d known. Of course he’d known.

“Those cuts are infected,” Dean said. “You can’t defend yourself without an immune system, so that’s why they’re so bad.”

“We need to get some serious drugs into you,” Sam declared. “You could get septicemia.”

“There go my vacation plans,” Castiel said dourly, closing his eyes.

Sam glanced at his brother, who was staring down at Castiel with an unreadable expression. When he looked up at Sam, however, there was such sadness in his eyes that Sam suddenly felt immeasurably tired. This situation was already so fucked-up, but Zachariah just kept those hits coming, didn’t he? Poor Castiel. So this was how he was going to die. Forget the demons and all the other dangers that came with hustling on the streets for an imaginary lifetime; this came down to a simple virus. Zachariah was making a point again: Castiel was human now, and humans died from things like AIDS. It could have been anything, really: heart disease, cancer, kidney failure. But with the life Castiel had been thrown into, this seemed to make a perfect, if sick, kind of sense.

“Hey,” Dean said, holding his hand out. “Give me the cloth.”

“It’s okay, I’ll do it.”

“No, you won’t. Give it to me.”

Sam hesitated before handing it over. He watched as Dean started cleaning up the blood on Castiel’s stomach, not flinching in the slightest as his fingers touched it. Trust Dean not to care. He didn’t give a damn whether Castiel was contagious or not. Even if this situation had been absolutely real, Sam suspected Dean wouldn’t have worried. Hell, neither of them expected to live past forty anyway. Or thirty-five. Or the next month, for that matter.

Castiel seemed to have passed out again; he didn’t flinch at all as Dean worked, although he was shivering with cold, still soaking wet from the rain. “We should get him into a hot bath,” Sam said, watching water soak into the pillow from his hair. He realized that he must have cut it short and dyed it brown to hide himself from them.

“Sounds like a good idea,” Dean said quietly, concentrating on cleaning the worst of the cuts. “He’s probably going to need stitches here. Let’s warm him up first. He’s shocky enough as it is.”

Sam disappeared into the bathroom and proceeded to spend the next five minutes trying to get the water to run warm, but to no avail. It was hot when he used the faucet on the sink; the shower hanging precariously over the tub ran hot, if listlessly; but nothing filled the tub except water so cold Sam wondered if it was coming from the foot of a glacier or something. He was just starting to lose his temper when Dean appeared in the doorway.

“Cas says you need to run the hot water in the bathtub at the same time as the shower’s on.”

“What?”

Dean shrugged. “We’re in room nine. Apparently he knows all its secrets.”

Sam stared at him for a few seconds before trying it out. The water ran hot and began to fill the tub. “Huh,” he said, surprised.

“I may need some help getting Cas in there,” Dean announced. Sam followed him back out into the bedroom to find Castiel sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a towel to the wounds on his stomach and shivering. He looked up at them and grimaced.

“I’m not a little kid. I don’t need anyone to bathe me.”

“Oh yeah? Let’s see you walk from here and get into that tub by yourself.” Dean’s voice was mocking, but gentle with it.

Castiel’s shoulders slumped. “Okay, so I might need a hand getting in there. But that’s it. I’m beat up and I can’t breathe straight, yeah, but I’m not totally useless.” He shook his head, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “I don’t even _know_ you guys. This is fucking insane.”

“Don’t let’s start that again,” Dean muttered. “D’you need a hand getting your pants off?”

Castiel snorted. “If there’s one thing I’m good at doing, it’s _that._ ” But when he tried to stand, he wobbled so precariously that the brothers each had to grab an arm to hold him straight. “I take that back,” Castiel said tightly, and shuddered in Sam’s grip.

They walked him into the bathroom and Sam held him up as Dean divested him of his sopping-wet jeans with clinical efficiency. Castiel didn’t look embarrassed about being naked in front of them – he was used to baring himself to strangers, after all – but he did seem quietly furious with himself for needing their help. Getting him into the tub took three attempts and by the time Castiel settled down in the water, wincing and shaking, he was coughing again.

“The steam should help a bit,” Sam said hopefully, as the sound echoed off the tiles around them. He kept his eyes on Castiel’s face, embarrassed by his nakedness even if he wasn’t.

“I’ll be fine,” Castiel managed to gasp out, waving them both away. “Leave me alone.”

They obliged, pulling the door ajar behind them. Dean had Castiel’s jeans in his hands and he checked the pockets carefully before dumping them in the trash, scooping his t-shirt off the carpet to follow them. Both items were so covered in blood they were beyond saving. Sam searched the room’s meager closet for extra blankets and towels while Dean dug out some clothes from his own bag for Castiel to wear. Neither of them spoke for a while; the only noise was Castiel’s occasional coughs and the sound of running water from behind the door.

When Sam finally sat down and met Dean’s gaze, he wasn’t surprised to see that his brother looked as though he was going to explode.

“We’ll get him to remember,” Sam assured him, keeping his voice low so that Castiel couldn’t hear. “He seems to be trusting us more. He believes in demons. It can’t be long now before all the pieces fall into place.”

Dean cast a quick glance at the door before dropping his voice to a whisper. “I think those bastards raped him, Sam. When I took off his pants I saw bruises and blood. They didn’t just cut him up – they couldn’t keep their filthy fucking paws off him.”

Sam felt a wave of horror surge through him but Dean continued before he could speak. “Dammit, Sam… he’s been raped and assaulted and now he’s dying of fucking _AIDS_ and you really think he’s going to remember? Seriously? That’s not what Zachariah is doing here, man. There’s no way out for Cas at all. Nothing. Zach’s killing him slow and mean, just because he can, and there’s jack-shit we can do about it.”

Sam couldn’t think of what to say, so he didn’t say anything. He looked down at his hands and tried desperately not to think about Castiel at the mercy of three demons, being treated like that, fighting them and trying to understand why they were so much stronger than he was, _not remembering._

“Even if we do get his powers back, he’s going to remember all this,” Dean continued angrily, fighting to keep his voice from rising. “I don’t care how unemotional angels are supposed to be, he’ll feel something. He won’t be able to shrug this off. This is like some weird fucking torture roleplay game or something and he’s living it a hundred per cent. It’s just… God, ‘sick’ doesn’t even come close.” He balled his fists and turned away. After a few moments he started pacing, staring at the floor.

Sam thought hard. He fired up his laptop and scowled at the screen, struck with an idea as his fingers Googled Castiel’s condition. “Look, we know he’s ill, right? But there are medicines and drugs we can give him. This isn’t a death sentence, Dean. He’s not sick enough yet.”

“He seems plenty sick to me,” Dean observed dully, as more coughing erupted from the bathroom.

“He needs prednisone,” Sam read aloud. “It’s a corticosteroid. It’ll help with the PCP.”

“PCP?”

“The lung thing.”

“Great. What about those cuts?”

“Antibiotics should cover it, I guess. I don’t know. Have we still got those hospital scrubs stored away?”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “You going on a smash’n’grab at the local clinic?”

Sam shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt.”

“Are there step-by-step instructions on how to treat all this crap on the internet? This is serious, Sam. We can’t fuck this up by giving him an accidental overdose or something.”

Sam smiled. “I’ve got a plan.”

Dean stopped pacing and shot him a quizzical look. “Well, I’m glad someone has.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

Sam waited around long enough to help Dean get a rapidly fading Castiel out of the tub, dressed in a t-shirt and sweatpants that were miles too big for him and into bed. Then he hovered at his brother’s shoulder as he sewed up the worst of the cuts. By the time he’d finished Castiel was dead to the world, still a little cold and but a damn sight better than he had been, so Sam felt comfortable enough leaving him in Dean’s hands.

He found a hospital, parked the car, pulled out his fake ID and took a deep breath.

_Here goes nothing,_ he thought.

~ ~ ~

 

He returned with two bags filled with medical supplies including an oxygen tank and its plastic mask, which dangled from his arms as he walked through the door. Dean watched him throw the haul on the empty bed and gave him an impressed look.

“Cool stash,” he said. “Know how to use any of it?”

“You betcha,” Sam announced triumphantly. “Pretended to be a doctor, found an intern and told him I was giving him a surprise pop quiz. Poor kid nearly crapped himself, but I’m pretty sure he answered all my questions correctly. Then I just let myself into the pharmacy and a few storerooms.”

“Sweet,” Dean said, picking up the mask and studying it. “I’m glad you got this. His lips started going blue again about an hour ago. Every time he coughs I think he’s not going to come back from it.”

Castiel was fast asleep under the covers, fists curled into balls beneath his chin, hair still damp from his bath and sticking to his forehead. The bruising on his face was spreading but Dean had put dressings on some of the cuts on his cheek. Sam could quite plainly hear his chest wheezing as he breathed in and out, but at least he _was_ breathing in and out.

“We need to wake him up,” he said regretfully. “I have to set up a drip with some antibiotics, and he needs a few injections. Plus I picked up some food. I hate to think when he last ate something.”

“You sound like his mom,” Dean quipped, throwing him a quick grin. He leaned over the bed and shook Castiel’s shoulder gently. “Hey, Cas? Uh, I mean Dean. Rise and shine, man.”

Castiel was awake in an instant. He flinched away from Dean’s hand instinctively and froze, blinking up at them both, before his shoulders relaxed a little and he coughed into his hand. Sam couldn’t help but wince at how harsh it sounded.

“Where did you go?” Castiel rasped, glancing at him.

“To get you some medicine for that cough. Can you sit up?”

Castiel looked dubious. He stared at the supplies on the bed and his brow furrowed. “I’m not sure I’m… comfortable with this,” he said slowly. “That could be anything.”

Dean sat on the mattress with a sigh. “Come on, man. You still think we’re out to hurt you in some way?”

Castiel rubbed at his face gingerly, avoiding the bruises. “I have absolutely no idea what’s going on any more. Everything’s so crazy. I still don’t believe your story but I saw those… those demons. I just can’t figure out what your endgame is. Why are you helping me?”

Dean patted him on the shoulder. “You know, you need to have some faith here. A friend of mine once told me that good things do happen.”

“Not in my experience,” Castiel said darkly.

Dean lowered his head. “Yeah, I didn’t believe it when he told me, either. But he was right. Sometimes they do. We’re going to fix you up whether it kills us, man – all you have to do is trust us a little more.”

Castiel nodded at the bed. “What is that stuff?”

Sam went through it with him, taking care to show him all the labels and to prove that none of the seals on the bottles had been tampered with. Castiel seemed suspicious and asked a lot of questions but eventually relaxed a little, possibly more because he was tired than because he really trusted them. Sam filled a syringe with prednisone and held it out to Castiel’s arm, meeting his gaze for a moment before he gave him the injection.

Castiel didn’t even flinch. “So are you a doctor?” he asked.

“No, I’m a hunter. We have to learn medical stuff because it’s a dangerous job.” He directed him to put pressure on the needlemark on his arm, then started unwinding the IV tube.

“You seem pretty good at it,” Castiel remarked.

“Yeah, he’s a regular Doctor Sexy,” Dean cut in sarcastically.

Out of nowhere, Castiel laughed. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew what that guy got up to after dark.”

Dean frowned. “Come again?”

“He’s a regular customer for one of the workers round here. For a guy known for romancing the ladies he’s certainly got a big appetite for cock.”

Sam almost choked, but he wasn’t sure whether it was from the thought of the actor Dean idolized picking up rentboys or from the fact an angel just said ‘cock’. Dean simply went bright red and looked away. “Oh,” he said. “Well, I guess everybody’s got their dark sides.”

“His wears a saddle, if I remember right,” Castiel said smugly.

It took a little while but Sam managed to get an IV line into Castiel’s arm. He hung the bag of antibiotics from the headboard and made Castiel sit back against the pillows. “You need to eat something,” he instructed him.

“I’m not hungry,” Castiel returned.

“Too bad. You’re sick and you need food.” Sam handed him a sandwich. Castiel regarded it as though it had been dipped in motor oil. “Eat it,” Sam ordered, then regretted it when Castiel flashed him a look that was a little scared.

“Or what?” he asked. “You’ll handcuff me?”

Dean sighed. “Look, we’re sorry about that, okay? We just didn’t want to let you out of our sight. And we were right, too. Check out what’s happened to you since then. Those demons wouldn’t have found you if we’d been there.”

Castiel stared at the sandwich in his hands mournfully. “I’m going to wake up soon. This is a dream. Everybody thinks I’m an angel and demons are real. Fuck my life.”

“I can prove it to you,” Dean said suddenly. He rose to his feet and pulled off his shirts, then lifted his t-shirt over his head. Castiel stared at him quizzically until he saw the handprint on Dean’s arm; then his eyes widened and he whistled.

“What the hell is that?”

“You,” Dean declared. “You did that when you pulled me out of Hell. That’s your hand, Cas.”

Castiel stared at it as if he was hypnotized. Dean dipped closer and the brothers held their breath as Castiel raised a hand and placed it over the burn. “It doesn’t fit,” he said after a moment. “My hands are too small.”

“I don’t think you were in this body when you did it,” Dean said apologetically.

“Right,” said Castiel, unconvinced. “That’ll be it, then. Of course. I was a big, glowy angel at the time. How silly of me to forget.”

Dean got dressed again, but Sam couldn’t help but notice that Castiel didn’t take his eyes off the handprint until it was hidden under the clothes. Then he seemed to shake himself out of his stupor and picked up the sandwich. “I’m sorry I took your gun,” he said, nibbling a corner.

“Don’t sweat it, man. We got it back,” Sam assured him.

Castiel nodded but didn’t reply. He chewed listlessly, staring off into space. He’d only taken three bites before he started coughing so badly that they hurried to turn on the oxygen tank and hold the mask up to his face. Castiel gulped in the air so desperately that he clawed at the front of Dean’s shirt in his frantic need.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Dean hushed him, holding him upright by one shoulder and staring right into his eyes, just like he had the time Castiel had been on the floor. Blue eyes stared right back. It took a long time for Castiel’s breathing to even out again, and neither of them looked away once. The intensity of their gaze gave Sam goosebumps.

“I’m tired,” Castiel croaked miserably once he stopped coughing.

Dean nodded and helped him lie back down, giving the barely touched sandwich back to Sam and looping the cord from the oxygen mask over Castiel’s head to keep it in place. Sam could have sworn that Castiel was asleep before his head even hit the pillow. He looked exhausted.

“How long before the drugs kick in and do some good?” Dean whispered.

“No idea,” Sam replied. “The doses are pretty high, so hopefully he’ll start improving soon.”

“Watch him for a minute, would you? I need to go do something.”

Dean picked up his cellphone and disappeared out of the door. He returned a few minutes later slightly out of breath and red-faced. He threw the phone onto the bed and grunted, “Motherfucker isn’t picking up his calls.”

“You wanted to yell at Zachariah?”

“What the fuck else can I do?” Dean snapped, and then, from nowhere, he laughed bitterly. “I left him the world’s most offensive message. Wherever that son of a bitch is right now, his ears are burning right off.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

 

~ ~ ~


	4. It’s Not Easy Being Dean continued

  


 

~ ~ ~

 

 

Sam slept for a few hours, waking up as evening was falling to find Castiel still unconscious and Dean snoring in the chair across the room, the laptop screensaver on the table in front of him painting colors on his face. Sam knuckled sleep out of his eyes and wandered over, nudging him awake and pointing at the bed. “Go lie down before you ruin your back.”

Dean grunted something unintelligible, cast a look over at Castiel and then collapsed on the bed. He was asleep almost immediately. Sam flicked on some lights and found something to eat while he searched the internet for more information on Castiel’s condition, although all he really had to do was look at the history because Dean had been doing the same. He couldn’t focus on the words, though. He found himself wondering how all this was going to end; whether Zachariah would win and Castiel would die, unable to be brought back to life this time by whatever force had resurrected him after he’d fought Raphael. And he also found himself musing on what would happen if they _did_ manage to bring back the old Castiel – how would he react after all of this? Would he just shrug it off and get on with his search for God, or would living as a human for this space of time affect him in some way, as Dean was sure it would?

The weirdest thing was that Sam felt sorry for the guy asleep a few feet away right now, the Dean Winchester that was a fake but didn’t accept it. He’d still lived a life, of sorts. He was a fully formed personality. He wasn’t just Castiel with his circumstances changed: he cracked jokes, talked about experiences he’d had and fought to stay alive. He was a complicated _person_ , someone who wasn’t really the angel they already knew, and whatever happened here… he was going to vanish. Sam felt sorry for him in more ways than he could fathom. No matter how illusory his life was up until now, this Dean Winchester still existed. And he was doomed.

The Dean in question was muttering in his sleep. Sam rose to his feet, stretched and padded over to him, somehow timing it so that he reached his side just as his eyes snapped open. Castiel stared around him blearily before focusing on Sam’s face.

“Hey,” said Sam.

“Thirsty,” Castiel croaked. Sam helped him sit up and handed over a bottle of water before going to fetch a towel. He was dripping wet; one of the symptoms of PCP was night sweats, Sam knew, and the infection from his cuts probably wasn’t helping. Castiel’s hand shook as it held the bottle to his lips and his shoulders shuddered as he swallowed. Sam waited for him to finish drinking then reached out and placed a palm on his forehead, not liking how hot and clammy it felt. Castiel tried to move away and Sam pulled back, knowing that he was still a stranger as far as Castiel was concerned and such intimacy wasn’t welcome.

“You’ve got a fever,” he told him, keeping his voice low so he didn’t wake Dean. “The antibiotics haven’t started working yet, but they will.”

“My chest feels better,” Castiel said weakly.

“That’s good.”

Castiel ran a shaking finger down the side of the plastic water bottle. “I dreamt I was flying.”

Sam caught his breath.

“I could feel the weight of my wings. It was freaky. I was flying and they were ruffling in the wind, and I could feel every feather moving. They were really noisy… like some giant eagle flapping. I’ve never had a dream that vivid.” He glanced up at Sam and raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to tell me it wasn’t a dream, aren’t you?”

“I’ve never seen Castiel’s wings,” Sam said, quirking a smile. “But I’ve heard them. They sound pretty big. Dean says they are, but I think he’s only seen their shadow.”

Castiel sighed. “I’m not going all R Kelly here, you know. I still don’t believe I can fly.”

Despite himself, Sam chuckled. “You really sound like Dean sometimes.”

“I _am_ Dean.” Castiel glared at him, then his face softened. He picked up the towel and wiped sweat off his neck. “I’m really hot.”

“I know. Want me to get you some ice?”

Castiel closed his eyes and shook his head. “I keep waiting for you to attack me or hit me or shout at me or something, but you keep saying stuff like that. You keep looking after me. This is so strange.”

Sam sat on the mattress, saddened. “That’s been your life, hasn’t it? People treating you that way?”

“Pretty much, yeah.” He didn’t sound sorry for himself. He was just stating a fact.

Sam hesitated before asking gently, “How did you get infected? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but…”

Castiel barked out a laugh. “Would you believe it wasn’t through sex? It was an accident. I was in jail at the time.” He traced a finger down the cut bisecting his eyebrow. “I was hoping to take LA County to court to get some compensation, seeing as it happened while I was supposed to be under their care, but no lawyer wanted to touch me with a barge pole. Figures.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam said, heartfelt.

Castiel looked away. “I started having sex for money when I was sixteen, before I’d even left home, because I was trying to raise cash for my brother to get away. And I was so careful. All those years, I was so careful. I mean, some guys got tough with me and refused to use protection… more times than I can remember, actually, because it took me a few years to learn how to fight. But each time it happened I got tested right away and I was always clean. Then in the space of a one-minute fight in a prison canteen that I wasn’t even part of, that was it. Just another HIV-positive loser.”

“But you carried on working?” asked Sam uncomfortably, a little shocked.

“I’ve never infected anybody. I’m careful. Most of the stuff I do is all about people doing stuff to _me_ , anyway. And it’s pretty much the rule of the street that you wear a condom no matter what.” He smirked and handed Sam the bottle. “Unless you’ve already got HIV and you want to fuck someone. Then you don’t have to worry about anything. I’ve got regulars who like the fact I can swallow. They pay extra for it.”

Sam had to look away, feeling a little sick.

“Do you like guys?” Castiel asked unexpectedly.

“No,” Sam replied, turning back to meet his eyes. “Uh, no. I like girls. This whole, uh, world that you live in… it’s all kind of strange to me.”

“Yeah, I’m getting that,” Castiel said, smiling. “But you’re okay with your brother being gay, though?”

That caught Sam by surprise. “Er… what?”

Castiel shrugged. “Unless he’s keeping it from you. I don’t know, maybe he’s not out after all.”

The look on Sam’s face must have said everything he was thinking, because Castiel actually laughed at him. “Okay, I get it. You don’t know. You think he’s straight. Sorry. I won’t say any more.”

Sam had to struggle to keep his voice low. “What the hell makes you think he’s gay? Seriously, man, Dean will sleep with anything in a skirt. He’s been doing it for so long I think he gets withdrawal if he doesn’t get laid at least once a week.”

Castiel stared at him, his forehead creasing as he considered his words. “But he likes this angel you’re all talking about, doesn’t he? He likes _me_?”

Sam opened his mouth and closed it again. “Uh… You’ve lost me.”

Castiel shot Dean a glance. “It was there when I couldn’t breathe and he was staring at me. Any time he looks at me, actually. I can see it in his eyes. He looks right into me. Nobody stares like that unless they like what they’re seeing. It’s like he’s… hungry. Ferocious. It scares me every time he does it, because he’s not really staring at me; he’s staring at the guy he thinks I am. But it’s also kind of nice.” He glanced away, Adam’s apple bobbing on his throat as he swallowed. “Nobody’s ever looked at me like that before. I never thought anybody would.” He sounded sad.

Sam thought back to those times when he’d seen Dean staring into Castiel’s eyes. Yeah, there was something there. Castiel wasn’t imagining it. But he didn’t know if it was what Castiel thought it was. It wasn’t desire, or love, or infatuation; it was just Dean willing him to live. It was Dean trying to force Castiel – and the universe – to do his bidding. To make him survive, to kick Zachariah’s ass, to get strong and useful again. To help them fight. Castiel needed to survive because they needed him to save the world. It was as simple as that.

At least, he assumed that’s what it was.

“He cares about you,” Sam allowed, choosing the words carefully. “You’re his friend. I think that’s it, though. He’s not gay. Dean’s just about the least-gay person in the world.”

“It’s not a bad thing, you know,” Castiel said quickly, looking a little offended. “You don’t have to say it like that.”

“I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. Being gay isn’t a bad thing, I’d never think that. I’m just saying it’s not who he is.”

Castiel looked down at the damp sheets covering him. “I guess it can be a bad thing. It just depends what you do with it.”

Sam opened his mouth to speak but suddenly music blasted out from the room beside theirs, so loud that the pictures on the wall rattled. Sam flinched and glanced at his brother, who shifted uneasily on the bed. When he looked back at Castiel, he was surprised to find him smiling.

“This is a classy place,” Castiel said. “You get the best neighbors.”

“Apparently so,” Sam replied, wrinkling his nose as the sound dipped down a little.

“I’ve lived on the streets and in rooms like this for so long I can’t even remember what it’s like to have a home. This is normal to me.”

“I’ve never had a home either,” Sam nodded, saddened that he was bonding with this guy who didn’t even really exist. “I always wondered what a place of my own would look like.”

Castiel’s grin widened. “I already know mine. It would have white paneled walls with gold leaf edges, like some kind of Regency mansion. There’d be beautiful artwork everywhere. Sculptures and stuff. I think I’d have a harp in one corner, because that would be decadent. And I’d have silver platters on the table with all the beer and food I could possibly want.”

“That’s pretty specific,” Sam said, raising his eyebrows.

“I think I saw it in a TV show,” confided his companion happily. “I can see it in my head, clear as day. The weird thing is, though, that there’s no door or any windows. I suppose I’d just beam in there or something.”

Sam was struck by the similarity between his description and the ‘green room’ Dean had said the angels placed him in that time. Was that what he was describing? But before he could ask, Castiel’s face twisted a little and he coughed. His body stiffened and he placed a hand on his side. “Ow.”

“Are your cuts hurting?”

“They’re burning.”

Sam patted him on the arm and went to wash his hands. He grabbed the medikit and directed his patient to pull up his t-shirt. Castiel watched with a frown as Sam peeled off the dressings, then let out a breath of annoyance when he saw they were almost soaked through with pus and blood.

“No wonder they’re uncomfortable,” Sam said sympathetically. Dean had only been able to sew up two of the cuts; the others were too infected. He picked up a sterile wipe and went to use it but Castiel drew back.

“You need to put gloves on or something.”

Sam flushed. “I forgot.”

“Easily done.” Castiel gave him a wan smile. He had dark circles under his eyes and the bruises on his cheek were worsening. He needed a shave and a few decent meals but he was still _Cas_. Sam realized he’d forgotten; he’d been too caught up in this strange, broken man lying before him. It wasn’t right to get friendly with Dean when Castiel was inside him, waiting to be brought back. Dean was going to die. The more Sam liked him, the worse it made him feel.

He put his regrets aside and pulled on some latex gloves. As he touched the first cut Castiel jerked and swore. “Sorry,” Sam apologized, even though he’d been gentle.

“It’s okay,” Castiel panted, wheezing a little. “I think I need to lie down.”

Sam waited until he was horizontal and started again. Castiel kept flinching, screwing up his eyes and biting his lip. He was really sore but Sam couldn’t stop, so he tried to distract him with conversation instead. “You live on the streets, right?” he asked. “Where do you usually sleep?”

Castiel shivered. “Anywhere I can. West Hollywood Park’s a good place, as long as I find the right spot. People walk their dogs there and they keep waking me up.”

“Guess it’s okay to sleep outdoors in California, huh?” Sam kept his voice light. “Wouldn’t like to try it in Oregon.”

“I get hassled by the cops a lot. They don’t like vagrants. Well, the _tourists_ don’t like vagrants. Makes the area look bad.”

“That’s tough.”

“Sometimes I want to stop it all and find something else to do with my life, y’know? But it’s difficult. Father kept me at home when I was a kid, so I never went to school. He was supposed to be home-schooling us but he just made us memorize the Bible. I’ve got no qualifications and no skills. I can barely even add two numbers together.” He sighed and hid his eyes beneath his arm. “Guess the only thing I’m good for is fucking.”

Sam wanted to reassure him but Castiel suddenly hissed, “Jesus, that hurts!” Startled, Sam backed off. Castiel was gulping in air, his chest sounding ominously tight. He clenched his fists, clearly in pain.

“I’m sorry,” Sam told him, hating this. Hating all of it.

“It’s okay,” Castiel replied, his eyes still hidden under his arm. “You’re trying to help, I know. It just hurts. Everything hurts. What those… guys did to me… I should be used to it by now, but I’m not. It always hurts.” He heaved in a trembling breath and lowered his arm, staring up at Sam through moist eyes. “Tell me about this angel. Castiel. What’s he like?”

Sam told him. He cleaned the cuts as gently as he could and didn’t stop talking even when Castiel moaned and flinched. He told him everything he knew about Castiel and all the stuff he thought he knew, such as Castiel’s motivations and what had happened to him when he was reprimanded for helping them too much. He talked until he’d finished working and pulled off his gloves as Castiel relaxed on the mattress, his face as pale as the new dressings on his stomach.

“I don’t understand what you mean by ‘grace’,” Castiel asked him, weariness plain in his voice. “Is it something to do with the way he moves?”

“The way he moves?”

“Like, whether he can dance or not?”

Sam laughed. “No, it’s not that kind of grace. It’s something else. I don’t know. It’s, like, this light inside him, and it’s holy. He needs it to be an angel. I suppose it’s his soul, or what passes for an angel’s soul. If you take it away, he’s just human.”

Castiel looked thoughtful. “So I haven’t got any grace, and that’s why I’m human. But if I had it back, I’d be Castiel again.”

“Yeah, that sums it up. Zachariah said if we could make you remember who you were, he’d return it to you.”

“But I don’t believe in God,” Castiel said. “How can I be an angel?”

Sam smiled. “I think Cas has enough faith for the both of you.”

“That’s what we need to do,” Dean said suddenly. Surprised, Sam turned to look at him. His brother was awake and sitting upright on the bed a few feet away, staring at them both triumphantly.

“What do we need to do?” Sam asked, baffled. “And hey, I thought you were asleep!”

“I woke up when those tools next door decided to throw a party. Look, I’ve figured it out. Cas can’t remember, right? So Zach’s not going to give him his grace back.”

“There’s still time–” Sam started to say, but Dean shook his head.

“No, no, I keep telling you, I don’t think this is about Cas remembering anyway.”

“I’m right here,” Castiel said. “You don’t have to talk about me like I’m not in the room.”

“This is about us _finding his grace,_ ” Dean said urgently, slamming his palm down on the bed. “If we can find it for ourselves we don’t need that asshole at all.”

“But Zachariah must have it,” Sam said. “Where else would it be?”

“Maybe, maybe not. But we should look anyway. It can’t hurt, right? Maybe he’s hidden it somewhere to test us. Like... like... buried treasure, or something.”

“Like pirate treasure,” Castiel said vaguely. Sam shot him a curious glance; that hadn’t sounded altogether… well, _together,_ but Castiel seemed okay.

“Sam, go use your Google-fu. See if you can find anything about a meteor falling over the last few weeks.”

“Why are you talking astrology?” Castiel asked.

“It’s astronomy, not astrology, and when an angel loses its grace it gets thrown down to Earth like a shooting star. That’s how we find it.” Dean shot him a grin. “It’s kind of cool, actually.”

“Cool,” repeated Castiel dreamily, and this time Sam did more than look twice at him. He placed a hand on his forehead and sighed.

“Your temperature’s really shooting up there, pal.”

“Need more drugs,” Castiel said, his eyelids flickering.

“I can’t increase the dosage. I don’t want to make you even sicker.”

“Sam, get Googling. I’ll go and get our hot friend here some ice.”

“ _You’re_ hot,” giggled Castiel, sounding very young all of a sudden. Dean squeezed his arm indulgently and disappeared into the bathroom, emerging a few minutes later with a wet face, a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth and a towel over his shoulder. He went outside to collect some ice and Sam looked for shooting stars as hard as he could.

Nothing.

“Okay, so that panned out,” Dean grumbled a short while later, as he bundled ice cubes inside a towel and placed it on Castiel’s forehead. There was a moan and Castiel snatched it off him, dropping it on his sternum instead.

“Zachariah probably never gave up the grace once he took it,” Sam theorized. “He must have put it inside something, like Uriel did with Anna’s. A bottle or an amulet.”

“Do you have anything like that?” Dean asked Castiel, who simply blinked up at him like an owl. His face was flushed and he seemed to be having trouble focusing. Sam gave him a worried look – he should be getting better by now, not worse. The injections had helped with his coughing but the antibiotics weren’t even making a dent in the infections. He was going to get real sick, real fast if that was the case.

“Cas?” Dean said again, shaking him.

Castiel coughed and frowned. “What?”

“Do you own anything your grace could be kept inside? Like an amulet or a bottle? Anything like that?”

“I don’t own anything,” Castiel said. “I don’t even own myself. Other people own me for a few hours at a time. Sometimes they own me all night.” He giggled. “I’m pretty cheap.”

Dean looked repulsed. He stared up at the ceiling for a while before trying again. “Okay, so you don’t have anything now. What about in the past? When you were growing up, maybe? Did you own an amulet then?”

Castiel shrugged. “Father had an amulet. He wore it all the time. He said it contained pure love and we weren’t worthy enough to see it. He never took it off, not even when he fucked me.”

Sam had to look away, disturbed by the matter-of-fact way Castiel said the words. For the millionth time he thought to himself _it’s not real_ , but they were becoming less and less effective. It was real, alright. It was real for Dean Winchester, even if it wasn’t quite real for the angel Castiel.

“Your dad has your grace,” Dean said slowly, and he lifted his head to stare at Sam. “We’ve got to find him.”

“Is he still in Lawrence?” Sam asked, remembering that Castiel’s background was the same as theirs.

Castiel’s face fell. “No,” he said. “No, you can’t find him.”

“He could help us, man,” Dean started to say, but Castiel was suddenly breathing heavily, pushing himself upright and staring at them both in horror.

“No,” he said again, choking on the word. “No, no… you’re working with him, aren’t you? He sent you to find me! He wants you to take me home so he can punish me for leaving him! He wants to hurt me again!”

“It’s okay, we don’t know him,” Dean said quickly, alarmed at his reaction.

“I was starting to believe you!” Castiel moaned, ripping out the needle in his arm and throwing back the covers. “I thought you were telling me the truth, but it was lies all along! He sent you to manipulate me with all this… _crap_ about angels and demons! Fuck you! Fuck both of you! I thought you were my _friends!_ ”

He attempted to stand but simply ended up slumping into Dean’s waiting arms. Dean tried to lift him back onto the bed but Castiel fought him desperately, crying and cursing as he struggled; Sam tried to help subdue him but Castiel growled and kicked him away, absolutely determined to fend them off despite his failing strength. He only managed to put up a fight for a few moments before, inevitably, the coughing began, but when Dean shoved him back on the mattress and tried to pin the oxygen mask on his face Castiel kept tearing it off. He coughed and coughed, hacking and wheezing so powerfully that Sam’s eyes started watering in sympathy, but no matter how much they tried to help him he somehow found the strength to push them away.

_He wants to die,_ Sam realized suddenly, distraught. _He thinks we’re going to take him back to his father and he’d rather die._

“Dammit, Cas!” Dean snapped, holding the mask against his mouth and ignoring the fact Castiel was scratching his hands as he fought to push it off. “Just relax, okay? We don’t know your dad and we’re not going to let him anywhere near you!”

Castiel’s skin was going blue but somehow he still managed to shove Dean’s hands away before coughing so violently that blood suddenly lined his lips. His body jerked, his eyes rolled white and then that was it: he was unconscious. Dean cursed and slid the mask into place, checking his pulse and lowering his head in relief when he found it. He stood back, panting hard, and Sam came to join him as they both looked down at the insensate figure on the bed.

“At least he doesn’t have to be awake to go on a road trip,” Dean announced, out of breath, and turned to pack his bag.

 

~ ~ ~

 

 

~ ~ ~


	5. It’s Not Easy Being Dean continued

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winchesters are given a mission: they have to save Castiel. The trouble is, Castiel isn’t really Castiel any more…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during season five. This is a hooker!Cas fic which somehow doesn’t contain any sex (yeah, I know, how the hell did that happen?), but don’t let that fool you: it’s still pretty dark at times and there’s sexual talk. Be warned for all sorts of triggers such as non-con and child abuse (both implied) and, well, anything associated with a life on the street. Also, **ANGST.**

 

 

 

 

~ ~ ~

 

They left Los Angeles half an hour later, bundling Castiel into the back of the Impala with a pile of blankets, a pillow and the now half-empty oxygen tank, which they slotted into the footwell. He was absolutely out of it but they couldn’t trust him to remain calm if he did wake up, so Sam sat in the backseat to keep watch over him while Dean drove.

It was going to be a long journey. They didn’t need a fortune teller to figure that one out.

“So who do you think’s playing his dad in this fantasy life, then?” Dean asked as they headed out onto the freeway.

Sam shrugged. “I just hope he doesn’t look like the John Winchester we know. I’d hate to stare at Dad and imagine him doing the kind of stuff this guy did to Cas.”

“He’s supposed to be a _priest,_ ” Dean grunted, slipping on some sunglasses. “Zachariah’s an equal-opportunities bastard, isn’t he? He doesn’t care what shit he comes up with, as long as it fits his plans.”

Sam stared over at Castiel, who was curled up on the leather seat beside him, bare feet resting on Sam’s lap because there was nowhere else for them to go. They’d been able to find his dad easily using the internet: there was a Father John Winchester based in a church not far from the Winchesters’ real childhood home. Sam wondered at the sheer amount of power Zachariah must have to be able to generate so many details in this charade of his. He half-expected Castiel’s father not to exist – how the hell _could_ Zachariah conjure up a living, breathing monster from nowhere? – but he’d probably simply mind-wiped an innocent man and roped him in to play the part. Schemes within schemes within schemes. This whole thing was frightening in its complexity.

“I assume we’re simply going to punch this guy’s lights out and take his amulet without asking twice?” he asked his brother, already knowing the answer.

Dean grinned ferally into the mirror. “You bet your ass we’re going to punch him. I might even punch him if he gives us Cas’s grace straight off. I know this isn’t real, but I hate him anyway.”

The miles didn’t speed by fast enough. For once they kept to the interstate instead of taking back roads, a habit they’d picked up when the police had been looking for them, although those days were long-gone now. The Impala stood out far too much among all the modern vehicles on the freeways and interstates but it could also move much faster that way. Sam stared glumly out of the window as the night lightened into morning and the sun started to hurt his eyes, and then he fell into a doze, lulled by the sound of the engine. Dean hadn’t bothered turning on any music; that was always a sure sign he had too much on his mind.

_“Stop him, Sam!”_

He jerked awake in an instant, sensing movement beside him. Acting purely on instinct, he grabbed blindly at Castiel’s t-shirt and pulled him backwards just as Dean braked sharply at the edge of the road. It took him a few seconds to realize what had almost just happened: Castiel had been trying to open the door. He’d wanted to throw himself out of the car.

They’d been travelling full-speed. He was trying to kill himself.

“Let go of me!” Castiel screamed, all thrashing knees and elbows. Sam managed to pin his arms at his sides and pull him into a sitting position before Castiel folded over and coughed, blood spraying Sam’s jeans as he retched and choked. Dean took one look and swore so violently that Sam glanced up at him, shocked, before Castiel’s struggles died down enough that he could lay him flat on the seat, still holding one arm tightly to keep him from trying to open the door again. He stared up at them both, chest heaving and face pale and blood-splattered, looking both furious and absolutely scared out of his wits.

“It’s okay,” Sam started to say, but Castiel snarled and reached for the oxygen tank in the footwell to use as a weapon. Sam wrapped a hand around his wrist to stop him and Castiel bucked upwards with a howl of despair, outnumbered and outgunned, at their mercy but determined not to give up. Despite the bruises Sam could feel starting to form on his ribs where Castiel had just elbowed him, he found himself oddly proud of his defiance.

“We’re on your side,” Dean shouted above Castiel’s screams, reaching over the back of his seat and placing a hand on his neck. “Godammit, Cas, calm down! We’re not going to let that bastard come anywhere near you! You have our word, honest. We just need that amulet you said he wears – that’s it. You won’t have to see him. Please, trust us a little bit longer, okay?”

“No,” Castiel hissed through blood-lined lips. He pushed Dean’s hand away and his face twisted in despair. “You’re working for him. You son… of a bitch… you’re working for him!” He coughed again and Dean’s shoulders slumped.

“Okay, so you don’t believe us,” he said, resigned. “But you’re still coming with us and there’s nothing you can do about it. You’ve got two options here: you behave yourself and don’t try any more death-defying leaps, or we tie you up and shove you in the trunk. Your choice.”

Sam knew it was a bluff but Castiel didn’t. He opened and closed his mouth and his eyes widened in fear. “Don’t put me in the trunk,” he begged, his whole body suddenly going limp. “Please don’t. I don’t… like small spaces. Please. Don’t. I’ll be good. I promise.”

Dean’s face fell. It had been a last-ditch threat but it had clearly touched some kind of chord inside Castiel that he hadn’t been expecting. The look of horror on his face signalled that the thought of going in the trunk was the most terrifying thing he could imagine, and it was enough to make Dean backtrack guiltily before he could help himself. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. It’s okay, Cas, it was just me trying to be tough. We wouldn’t do that to you. Just… stop fighting us, okay? We need you to calm down.”

Castiel nodded silently, his eyes still wide and panicked. His breath was hitching and his lips were blue, so Sam retrieved the oxygen mask from the floor and slipped it over his head. Castiel didn’t take his gaze off Dean once. He still looked terrified.

“Want to drive for a while, Sammy?” Dean asked him quietly. They switched places and Sam started the engine, gazing in the mirror and watching, heavy hearted, as Castiel backed as far away from Dean as he could get in the tiny amount of space they had to share.

“I’m sorry, okay?” Dean told him with genuine feeling, but Castiel simply stared at him silently and trembled.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Castiel fell asleep as they entered New Mexico. They took advantage of his slumber to open the windows and let some wind into the car, relishing the warm, dry air after all the rain they’d witnessed in Los Angeles. Castiel didn’t open his eyes when they stopped for food and to fill up the tank, but he was sweating heavily by the time they hit the open road again, his temperature ratcheting up every hour. They picked up a cool box from a store as they passed through Wingate and Dean busied himself pressing damp cloths soaked in ice water to his patient’s forehead, his expression grim but determined.

It was evening by the time they passed Oklahoma City and by then Castiel was delirious. Sam tried to concentrate on the road ahead as his passenger tossed and turned in the backseat, burning up with fever, but his eyes kept flicking to the mirror and he felt nausea roiling in his stomach. After an hour Dean mumbled something to himself that sounded like _fuck it_ and he eased Castiel’s head into his lap, wrapping his arms around him and running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to keep him calm.

“How’s he doing?” Sam asked after a while.

“Not good,” Dean said flatly. “He keeps muttering your name. It’s kind of weird.”

“I’ve got the same name as his brother, remember?”

“It’s still weird. Are you sure you can’t give him any more antibiotics?”

“I’m pretty sure he’s up as high as he can go without it poisoning him. I just can’t risk giving him any more, Dean. Plus with the prednisone as well…”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, he’s dosed up to the eyeballs.”

Dean fell silent. Sam kept glancing at him in the mirror, moved by how intently he was staring down at the man on his lap, as though he didn’t want to look away from him in case anything happened. He thought about how Castiel had been convinced that Dean was in love with him, and it occurred to him that Dean _always_ stared at the angel like that – so intense, like he was searching for something in his gaze. Sam had never seen him do it with anybody else. The relationship between Dean and Castiel was like nothing Sam had ever encountered before; it was complicated and tangled up in all sorts of things like power, religion and faith. There were huge amounts of trust in there, and devotion – well, devotion on Castiel’s part, at least – and underneath it all was the knowledge that the angel had turned his back on Heaven just because Dean had asked him to.

That was a big responsibility, Sam mused. Dean must think about it a lot. He wondered how he’d have felt if it had been _him_ who’d asked Castiel to rebel, and then seen him do it. He was pretty sure he’d feel guilty about it. He was certain that Dean did.

“Lucifer,” Castiel moaned, breaking the silence.

Dean had been slouching against the back of the seat. At the sound, he whipcracked upright and placed a hand on Castiel’s cheek. “Cas?”

“He’s walking the Earth,” said Castiel slowly. Sam couldn’t see his expression very well in the mirror because it was too dark, but he could tell that Castiel’s hands were clenched at his sides.

“Yes, yes, he is,” Dean said urgently, shooting Sam a frantic glance. “Are you remembering? Cas?”

“Where am I?” Castiel groaned.

“You’re in the car – you’re with us, it’s okay. Do you remember? Castiel, do you remember?”

Sam had to keep his eyes on the road but felt the vehicle lurch a little as Castiel suddenly sat bolt upright and started to struggle with his companion. “You’re not taking me there! You’re not taking me to him!” he cried, and then that was it; Castiel was gone and _Dean_ was in his place, fighting once again for his freedom. He had no strength at all this time, however, and Dean managed to still him by simply folding his arms around him and enclosing him in a tight, careful hug. Castiel’s head drooped and he began to sob pitifully, shaking and moaning and saying _No, please no,_ over and over, while Dean kept telling him everything was going to be okay, sounding like he didn’t even believe it himself.

After that, Sam fixed his eyes on the white lines guiding the car along the highway and stopped looking in the mirror.

 

~ ~ ~

 

It was almost dawn when he knew he couldn’t drive any more, so he pulled up and swapped places with Dean before he fell asleep at the wheel. Dean hadn’t had much sleep himself; Castiel was twitching and mumbling through this delirium, occasionally waking to a burst of coughing or a shouted, nonsensical word, and the brothers were probably just as exhausted as each other thanks to the fact he needed to be watched over.

“Keep hold of him,” Dean instructed as he slid behind the wheel, massaging his shoulder and pulling a face. “He does this thing where he suddenly sits upright and nearly headbutts you. Damn near broke my nose about an hour ago.”

“Noted,” Sam said wearily, trying to arrange himself so that Castiel could lie half on his lap without it cutting off his circulation. He was shocked by how hot he was, not to mention wet; he’d been sweating so hard his clothes were drenched through. Dean had changed the dressings on his stomach twice that day already but they kept peeling off. He was a mess. As Sam closed the door and rested a hand on his shoulder it suddenly dawned on him that Castiel was dying. They were racing against time here – if they didn’t reach Lawrence and find that amulet in the next day, Castiel wasn’t going to pull through.

“Hang on in there,” he whispered, but Castiel simply shuddered in his sleep and didn’t reply.

 

~ ~ ~

 

They were two hours from Lawrence when Castiel started moaning Sam’s name. He was having trouble breathing and was wearing the mask again but, despite the plastic muffling his words, he was quite clearly saying “Sammy,” over and again. In the end Sam decided to humor him, if only to keep him quiet.

“I’m here,” he murmured, wrapping his fingers around Castiel’s damp palm.

Dazed blue eyes snapped open and stared up at him. “I’m sorry,” Castiel mumbled.

“It’s alright,” Sam reassured him, forcing a smile. He wasn’t Castiel’s brother, of course, but Castiel was too far gone to know that. From what he knew of his life story, the last time they’d seen each other Castiel had been eighteen and Sam had probably been around fourteen – hardly old enough to run away from home, but he’d done so anyway. It had been a long, long time ago. Castiel wouldn’t have a clue how his brother would look today. He was sick and delirious. Maybe this was what he needed right now: somebody he thought he knew.

“Are you okay?” Castiel asked, squeezing Sam’s fingers. “I’ve been… so worried…”

“I’m fine, shhh. Get some rest, Cas… er, Dean.”

“Where are you? What… what are you doing?”

Sam improvised. “I’m, uh… I’m a lawyer. I’m doing really well. I live in Florida. I’ve got a wife and a kid named, er, Bobby.”

Castiel smiled, his eyelids sweeping closed and then open again. He huffed out a couple of coughs before saying softly, “Wow… Look at you. My little Sammy… all grown up.”

“Try and rest now, okay? You need to sleep.”

Castiel’s face crumpled. “I read your note,” he whispered, the words almost lost under the roar of the engine. “You were… wrong, Sammy. I didn’t enjoy it. You were… too young. You didn’t understand, but I did it… to keep you safe.”

Sam remembered back to the conversation they’d had a few weeks ago. Castiel had said he’d slept with his father to keep him away from his little brother. His brother, however, had assumed he’d done it for pleasure. _It never happened,_ he told himself firmly, swallowing, but he brushed a hand over Castiel’s damp forehead as reassuringly as he could and told him, “It’s alright, I believe you. I know you did it for me, Dean. You’d do anything for me, I know that.”

Castiel stared up at him adoringly and suddenly Sam realized what he’d said. Dean would do anything for him. Dean really would. Both Deans would: this one _and_ the man sitting in the front seat, staring ahead at the road with no idea what was going on in the back because he couldn’t hear. Each of them were living a life under the same name, fighting horrible odds, doing the best they could in impossible situations.

_Dean would do anything for Sam,_ he thought, and his eyes filled with tears.

“Don’t cry,” Castiel said sadly, reaching up and wiping away a tear with a shaking hand. “You found me. You found me… and we’re safe...”

“Yes, we are,” Sam said, smiling. “But you need some sleep. Can you get some sleep now, Dean?”

“I’m hot,” Castiel said, with a shiver.

“Close your eyes, man. You hear me? Go to sleep. I’m here. I’ll watch over you”

Castiel drifted off. Sam stared at him for a long time, his thoughts miles away, lost in his childhood and all the years that had followed, thinking about all the times Dean had sacrificed himself to save him. Dean didn’t have anyone except his little brother. Family was all they had. He glanced up but Dean was oblivious, checking his watch and scratching his neck, so he looked down again.

Castiel didn’t really have a brother. Castiel had nobody. He’d turned his back on his family for them. Sam felt a wave of sadness for him and sighed, turning to stare out of the window, seeing only darkness.

 

~ ~ ~

 

The church was old and a little run-down, in a street that had seen better days and which was eerily quiet in the moonlight. It was past midnight but there were lights on inside the building, which was a good sign. Who else would be in there except for the priest? They didn’t know where Castiel’s childhood home was, so this was their only hope when it came to finding his father.

“Get the Colt,” Dean told Sam firmly as they climbed out of the car. Sam nodded and dug everything they needed out of the trunk; demon knife, guns, even holy water, just in case. Dean walked up to the church door, slashed a line on his arm and painted the angel-banishing sigil on the wooden wall in his blood; it was outside the building, so it wasn’t ideal, but hopefully they’d get a chance to use it if there was any interference from Zachariah.

They didn’t have to worry about it working on Castiel, of course. He wasn’t an angel any more. He was deeply unconscious on the back seat, barely even shivering because his body was too weak to muster up the effort. Each breath he took sounded like his last. There was no oxygen left in the tank and he was slowly but surely suffocating in front of them.

They had to hurry.

“Ready?” asked Dean.

“Let’s do this,” Sam nodded, and they walked into the church.

There was a priest kneeling with his back to them at the far end of the aisle, his head bent in prayer at the altar table. The brothers looked around to check there was nobody else in the building and started walking towards him. Sam felt butterflies fluttering in his stomach but he gritted his teeth and clutched the knife firmly, determined that they were going to do this. The man standing before them was part of Zachariah’s plan, and if he did have Castiel’s grace… well, he wasn’t going to have it for long.

“Are you Father Winchester?” Dean asked, as they came to a halt a few feet from the black-robed figure.

The man’s shoulders twitched. “Who wants to know?” he replied in a muffled voice.

“We’re friends of your son,” Sam said, surprised at the bitterness in his voice. “You have something that belongs to him.”

“Do I really?” said the priest, and he climbed elegantly to his feet and turned to face them.

“You piece of _shit,_ ” Dean growled.

Zachariah’s grin spread so wide that Sam was seized with a sudden desire to stab him in the throat, even if that throat was wrapped in a gleaming white dog collar. “I’m very happy you figured it all out – surprised, but happy,” the angel observed, crossing his arms. As he did so Sam noticed his necklace: a golden cross, clearly hollow, with a screw-on top. It was tacky and ugly and, the moment his eyes fell on it, he knew without a doubt that Castiel’s grace was inside it.

“Give us his grace,” Dean demanded, taking a step forward. “You’ve played your little game and you’ve put Cas through hell but this is the end. Let us have it. Please.”

Zachariah breathed in a deep lungful of air and let it out. “Ah, boys. You really should have learned by now that the universe isn’t a fair place. All this ‘good karma’, ‘bad karma’ stuff is a load of nonsense. If I tell you one thing and then don’t see it through, it doesn’t affect me in any way. There are no penalties for breaking a promise. That’s not the way the cookie crumbles.”

“You said you wanted to teach him a lesson,” Sam snapped, feeling his face twist in anger. “He’s learnt it, okay? He’s been assaulted and traumatized and he’s sick and he can’t take any more. You’ve done your worst and that’s it, it’s over. Make him better. Give him his grace and leave us alone.”

“For a guy who gets his kicks glugging down demon blood, you’re very self-righteous,” Zachariah said idly, wagging a finger at him. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

“What do we have to do to make you help him?” Dean asked in a strangled voice.

Zachariah laughed. “You’re not that important right now, pipsqueak. Just for once, this isn’t about _you_. Lucifer isn’t in a hurry and neither is Michael – they’ll take you when they’re ready. So this is all about my disobedient little soldier and how terribly he’s fallen.”

There was a sudden rush of wind and then, from nowhere, Castiel was lying on the altar behind Zachariah. His arms dangled off the sides and his eyes were closed, his chest moving rapidly up and down as he fought for breath. Zachariah turned to face him and looked back over his shoulder at the brothers.

“Ah, the prodigal son returns!” he announced.

“Don’t you go near–” But Dean abruptly fell silent, frozen in place, and to Sam’s horror he realized he couldn’t move either. Zachariah had wrapped them in a spell of some kind and they were helpless; all they could move were their eyes. He strained and gasped but nothing happened – he wasn’t strong enough to break free.

“Let’s see how he’s doing, shall we?” Zachariah asked genially, and he placed two fingers on Castiel’s forehead.

His eyes snapped open in an instant and Castiel gasped in a long, deep breath that sent his back arching off the altar, then another, and another. He filled his starved lungs over and over before his eyes darted around the church, wide with fear and recognition, until they fell on the figure dressed in the robes of a priest standing beside him.

“No,” he gasped.

“Hello, son,” said Zachariah, his face suddenly terribly, mockingly serious. “I missed you. You shouldn’t have run away like that. It was very, very naughty. You’re a bad boy, Dean.”

Castiel stared at him in horror for a few, endless seconds. Then he threw himself sideways off the altar and collapsed in a heap on the wooden floor, clutching his side in agony as the movement must have ripped out his stitches. Zachariah watched with thinly veiled amusement as Castiel somehow climbed onto his hands and knees and looked down the aisle at the door… but Sam and Dean were in the way. He had no way of knowing that they were prisoners too. They were locked in place, staring at him with their faces twisted in anger because they’d been talking to Zachariah when they were frozen, and he could only assume that they were glaring at him.

“There’s no escape,” Zachariah said levelly, moving around the altar to stand over him. “You’re staying this time, son, and I’m not letting you go. You and I have unfinished business.”

“Fuck you!” Castiel snapped, backing away from him in a panic.

“I’d rather fuck you,” said the angel with a grin, clearly relishing his acting opportunity.

Castiel whimpered. He looked around him frantically, realizing there was no escape, before curling into a ball and hugging his knees. He began to rock on the floor, knuckles whitening as he dug his nails into his legs.

Zachariah glanced over at the brothers and waggled his eyebrows suggestively. Dean made a soft, keening sound. Sam almost didn’t hear it over the sound of the blood roaring in his ears.

“It’s such a shame you ran away when you did, Dean – you missed all the fun.” Zachariah placed a hand on Castiel’s head and stroked his hair. Castiel tried to flinch away but fingers curled around the strands, holding him in place. “You walked out of that door on your eighteenth birthday because you were so distraught about little Sammy leaving, weren’t you? If you’d only waited around for another two weeks you could have seen him again.”

Castiel’s head snapped up. “W-what do you mean?”

Zachariah shrugged. “I mean that he came back. You don’t really think a fourteen-year-old kid could run away from home and never be seen again, surely? Of course he came back. The police found him and brought him home to his dear Papa.”

“You’re lying,” Castiel said ferociously, uncurling and sitting up straight, yanking his head free of Zachariah’s fingers. “You’re lying because that’s what you do. You’re a liar. He never came back. He couldn’t have.”

“Oh, but he did. And I can prove it. He said he found nearly two thousand dollars under your bed, and that’s when he’d decided to run. Two thousand bucks, eh? I’m curious to know how you raised that all by yourself, Dean. Did you have a bake sale? Were you going from door to door selling girl scout cookies? Or were you selling your body on the streets like you’ve been doing every day of your life since then, you filthy little _whore_?”

Castiel’s expression was one of pure terror. “He couldn’t have come back. He couldn’t. No, you have to be lying. You… he…”

Zachariah dropped to his knees beside him. “You weren’t there to protect him any more. Some big brother you were. You ran away to California and you left little Sammy all to me. I had him for an entire year before he hung himself from the tree in our back yard.”

Sam stopped breathing. He couldn’t believe that Zachariah could be so cruel. All of this – everything he’d done, from building all those fake memories to putting the real Castiel on the streets to get abused and raped by humans and demons – none of it compared to the look of pain he’d caused on Castiel’s face right now. He’d never seen him look so agonized. Sam fought as hard as he could to move, to say something, to scream _This isn’t real!_ at the top of his lungs, but he couldn’t.

“You… you…” Castiel stopped, struggling to breathe. “It’s not true.”

“It’s true.”

“You’re lying. He’s not dead. He’s not. He’s living in Florida with a wife and a son.”

“Is that what you’ve heard? Then we must have buried the wrong body in the cemetery. Strange, because it really looked like him. And I should know. I saw every inch of him before he died.”

Castiel choked. There was a long, heavy, terrible silence.

“Poor Dean,” said Zachariah happily. “You always did fuck everything up. You fucked up your life and you fucked up Sam’s without even trying to. And now you’re dying, huh? God’s clearly punishing you for your failures.”

“No,” Castiel gasped, going horribly, terrifically pale.

“It’s such a shame you weren’t here,” Zachariah gloated. “He used to weep your name all the time.”

And that was the signal for Castiel to suddenly spring to life. He jumped to his feet and grabbed a heavy silver candlestick from the altar. He swung it through the air with a scream of rage and grief, hitting Zachariah on the side of the head with a sickening _crunch_. To Sam’s shock, the angel went down without a word; he hit the floor and twitched a few times but Castiel didn’t stop. He smashed the candlestick down again and again, blood spraying everywhere, coating the floor and the altar and the pews, splashing Castiel’s face and even hitting Sam and Dean as they stared in amazement. Zachariah was letting himself be battered to a pulp by a mere human. He was letting himself be _killed._

It only lasted a few seconds, but it felt like a lifetime. When it was over Castiel dropped to his knees beside the body, letting go of the candlestick. It fell to the floor with a clang and rolled away as he shoved Zachariah onto his back, reaching out for the cross around his neck with shaking, dripping fingers. He yanked it off and held it out before him, panting hard.

He looked up at Dean. “I know I’m not an angel,” he croaked. “But I pray to God that I’m wrong.”

He unscrewed the lid.

Sam suddenly found that he could move again. He barely closed his eyes in time to save them as the pure white light of an angel’s grace filled every nook and cranny of the church, accompanied by a howling, rushing wind that almost knocked him off his feet. He ducked down and hid his face in his hands, turning away to save himself from the astonishing force buffeting him, and then, with no warning, it stopped. Everything went quiet.

He opened his eyes and blinked at the floor, seeing spots in his vision but nothing too serious. Then he looked up at the altar.

Castiel was kneeling the ground before it. It was really him this time: he was wearing his usual clothes, his body hidden underneath several layers of business suit and trenchcoat, his feet encased in shiny black shoes and a tie hanging limply around his neck. His hair was sticking up in its usual messy style and there was no scar cutting through his eyebrow or cuts and bruises on his face. He looked older, stronger, less hollowed-out and tired. But his expression was one of pure horror, and it chilled Sam to the bone.

There wasn’t a speck of blood anywhere. When Sam looked down, his clothes were even clean of the blood Castiel had coughed over him in the car. And Zachariah was no longer lying on the floor. He was standing beside Castiel, looking down at him with a scowl, solid and whole and completely himself again.

“Do you see now, Castiel?” he asked. “Do you see what you did when you disobeyed?”

Castiel’s mouth fell open. He panted for a few moments, frowning, before looking up at the angel and shaking his head. “You,” he said. “You... All of that. You... You did all of that, just–” He stopped and lowered his head, shoulders shaking under his coat.

“What the hell is going on?” Dean snapped, sounding utterly furious. “Cas, is that you? Are you really back?”

“He’s back,” Zachariah sniffed, glaring at him. “He’s back, and he’s learnt the lesson I wanted him to learn.”

“What lesson?” Sam growled, completely out of his depth.

“That he should have followed his orders. That if he had, humanity would know Paradise by now. That by defying Heaven, he’s condemned millions of humans to live lives as miserable as the one he just suffered through.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “You can’t be serious.”

Zachariah smiled, but it wasn’t a nice smile. It was evil. Twisted. Manipulative. “He could have stopped it, and now he knows what his disobedience cost all those precious humans he loves so much,” he said triumphantly. “Now he understands just how miserable their pathetic, carnal, hopeless, violent, murder-filled lives really are. Now he truly understands the consequences of his actions. Stupid, stupid Castiel. You see what you’ve done? You could have ended suffering and instead you’ve prolonged it. You should repent and come back to us. You can help right the wrong you caused.”

Castiel let out a harsh choking sound. “No,” he gasped, wrapping his arms around his stomach and folding over. “No!”

“Cas, this is bullshit!” Dean shouted, but Zachariah raised a hand and silenced him.

“He’s had his eyes opened, Dean. Leave him be. He needs time to process what I’ve shown him.”

“It wasn’t real!” Dean snapped, stepping forward and balling his fists. “It wasn’t real, Cas! Everything that happened to you was pure fantasy, just some sick game he made up for you!”

“No, it wasn’t,” said Zachariah, as Castiel moaned on his knees beside him. “Everything that happened to him was real. Other humans have lived every second of that existence. I just mixed and matched and put in everything I could to teach him just how miserable your excruciating, useless lives can be. There wasn’t a single thing that happened to him that hadn’t already happened to someone else. And don’t forget that he _lived_ it. He’s been living it properly for the last two months, that broken, abused body of his failing in all its sordid little ways. What he went through as Dean Winchester is no different from all the everyday crap going down in the world right this very second.” He looked down at Castiel. “This could all be Paradise. All of it. And instead it’s Hell. You think about that, Castiel, and come see me when you decide you wish to repent.”

He suddenly wasn’t there any more. The air around Sam’s cheeks huffed a little and that was it; he was gone. There was only an angel kneeling on the wooden floor with his hands clutching his stomach and his head bowed, panting in what sounded like raw, unmitigated grief.

Dean didn’t move. He stared down at Castiel with an equally raw look on his face, clearly torn between wanting to help him and knowing there was nothing he could do; Zachariah had made his point, and he’d made it well. Sam stared at them both for a full minute before he stepped forward and crouched at Castiel’s side, placing a hand on his arm soothingly.

“Hey, Cas? Are you–”

He hit the floor ten feet away so hard that his teeth rattled. Somehow he managed to throw out his hands so that he didn’t hit the wood face-down, but the impact jarred his wrists and forced a cry of pain out of him that echoed around the church. He lay still for a few seconds, head spinning, before Dean was suddenly there, helping him sit up with worry written all over his face.

“Sam! You okay?”

“Yes,” he grunted, wincing as he looked down at his palms and saw splinters. He glanced up at Castiel, who was now standing by the altar and staring across at them through wide, guilt-filled eyes.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” he said, taking a step forward. “I am… I’m sorry, Sam. You… touched me, and I… panicked.”

“It’s okay,” Sam breathed, although he wasn’t sure it was. He was going to ache like a bastard in a few hours.

“I don’t–” said Castiel, and then he fell silent, his eyes going blank.

Dean gave his brother a supportive pat on the shoulder and rose to his feet. He walked over to the altar and came to stand as close to Castiel as he thought was safe. “What’s going on with you?” he asked in a clear, firm voice. “Is Zachariah right? Are you regretting switching sides? You can’t listen to him, Cas. He wants Paradise on Earth but in order to get it he needs the human race to be wiped out. I don’t care what argument you use – that is _not_ a good thing.”

“Their souls would rise to Heaven,” Castiel said, staring past Dean’s shoulder. “Their suffering would end.”

“They’d be dead,” Dean said flatly. “You can’t make this crappy planet a Paradise simply by killing everyone on it. You know that, Cas. Come on, we’ve had this argument before.”

Sam stared up at them both, realizing that Dean was right: he had argued this case before. This was between them now and there was nothing he could say to help. He sat quietly, bruises throbbing, and watched his brother argue to save humanity with a faint sense of pride and a hell of a lot of fear.

“There is so much hatred,” Castiel said, stiff-backed and stern, his eyes still far away. He wasn’t that loose-limbed, streetwise young man any more. That man had died, and Sam felt a sudden stab of grief for him. “I felt it. I could never feel it as an angel, but I felt it as a human. There’s hatred and wickedness and pain. I can’t… _You_ can’t argue that you want to keep such feelings in the world.”

“Yes I can, dammit,” Dean snapped. “It’s our right to experience that crap. You angels don’t have the right to take it out of our hands! We’ve got free will! Just because you guys are more powerful than us doesn’t mean you’ve got the right to use that power on us against our will!”

Castiel looked down at his hands. “I used to… _he_ used to cut himself with a knife. When he was a teenager and everything was so out of control, he used to inflict pain on his body because it gave him the feeling of power. He could control it. He could make it hurt and he could make the hurt stop. He used to cut, cut, cut.” He paused. Sam remembered seeing the scars on Castiel’s wrist and winced in sympathy. “And then one night his father saw the cuts,” Castiel continued. “He couldn’t understand what he’d been doing, and so he told him he had a demon inside him and it must have made him do it. He locked in him a closet for two days as a punishment. There was no light. No water. No food. Sam tried to unlock the door and let him go, but their father dragged him away and beat him. And I… _Dean_ never did it again, because he had no power any more, not even over himself. It was a lesson. No human has power over their body, none at all. It’s all an illusion. Free will is an illusion, Dean.”

“It’s not,” Dean said hoarsely, shaking his head. “We live our own lives. If those lives are terrible and fucked-up and full of pain, then that’s just the way it is. Look at what you went through, Cas – just look at it. Did you ever stop fighting? In all that time, whether it was imaginary or not, did you ever sit down and say ‘That’s it, I can’t take any more’? You fought tooth and nail until the bitter end, you stubborn son of a bitch, because that’s what humans do. We fight. We fight even if there’s nothing left to fight for because that’s what we _do_. You can’t take that away from us. It’s what makes us who we are.”

Castiel lifted his eyes to stare at him. “But the pain,” he said simply, and hesitated.

“It’s part of us,” Dean said.

“It shouldn’t have to be. You should all be at peace. Zachariah’s plan is flawed and God didn’t command it, but it will bring _peace_.”

“You trust God, don’t you? You would do anything he told you to do?”

“Of course,” Castiel affirmed, lifting his shoulders a little.

“He didn’t tell you to do this, Cas. When you rebelled and got your ass zapped by Raphael, he brought you back to life for a reason. You’re on the right side here, man. Don’t go crawling back to that asshole with his delusions of grandeur when God himself wants you to carry on doing what you’re doing.”

“That is all conjecture,” Castiel said emotionlessly. “God has disappeared.”

“And you’re supposed to be trying to find him.”

“People are suffering!” Castiel snapped, surprising them both. “How can I carry on when innocent humans are in so much pain? Who is helping them? Who _can_ help them except the hosts of Heaven?”

“They can help themselves, or other people can help them. It’s not down to you to decide they’re better off dead!”

Castiel fell silent, still staring into Dean’s eyes.

“Please,” said Dean, after a pause. “Don’t turn your back on us now, Cas. Not after everything we’ve been through.”

“We are fighting to stop Paradise. Does that not strike you as strange?”

“Cas, I’m trying to end the apocalypse with the help of a brother who drinks demon blood and an angel who just lived a fantasy life in which he was a rentboy. I think I’ve got a good idea what ‘strange’ is and yes, trying to stop Paradise is strange. But it’s also right. You can’t just erase the whole of humanity and start again because there’s suffering the world. What about all the good stuff? What about all the people who are happy and well-adjusted, with families and friends and kids and pets and jobs they enjoy? What about _love_ , Cas?”

Castiel’s expression fell. “I loved my… I mean, Dean loved his brother. But look how it ended. Love is merely a gateway to more pain. I learned that from watching you as well.”

Dean ran a hand down his face. “You’re breaking my heart here, Cas.”

“It’s the truth.”

“In all that time, didn’t anybody love you? Didn’t you connect with _anybody?_ ”

“No,” said Castiel.

Dean sighed. “I’m sorry, man. Zach really did a number on you, didn’t he?”

“I need to… think,” Castiel said dispassionately, and he was gone before Dean could say another word.

Silence fell in the church. After a few moments, Sam picked splinters out of his palms and climbed stiffly to his feet. Dean turned to face him, his expression grim. “I think we lost him, Sammy,” he said, and stalked out of the building without looking back.

 

~ ~ ~

 

They went to Bobby’s because that’s where they always went when they were broken and exhausted and all out of hope. They also had no idea whether Castiel had his cellphone or whether Zachariah had kept it – nobody answered when they called – and so it made sense to hang out in a place Castiel would think to look, seeing as he wouldn’t be able to find them anywhere else.

If he even wanted to look for them, of course.

It was a long drive and Dean didn’t say a single word the whole time, even when Sam tried to talk to him. By the time they reached Bobby’s auto yard Sam had lost count of how many hours they’d been awake. It was well into the night but Bobby was waiting for them as bright-eyed and perky as always, as used to their weird nocturnal lifestyle as they were after so many years as a hunter.

“So tell me the good news,” he asked, as the brothers walked through the door.

“Cas went back to the angels,” Dean said. He looked around the room and finished miserably, “I’m going out for a while.”

He turned and stomped down the stairs, disappearing into the wrecks and junkheaps of the auto yard. Sam turned back to Bobby and shrugged. “He’s pretty pissed.”

“He went turncoat on you?” Bobby asked, incredulous. “After all that searching you did for him? After all that worrying? The ungrateful son of a bitch!”

“It wasn’t like that,” Sam explained. “It’s a long story.”

Bobby made coffee as Sam sat down at the table in the kitchen, exhausted but still too wired to sleep. As he filled Bobby in on the latest details he tried to ignore the distant calls of _Cas!_ which filtered through the windows and into the house. Dean was out there calling for his friend, but he wasn’t answering.

“So what does it mean now that he’s handed himself over, then?” Bobby asked, stirring sugar into his mug with his other hand tapping on the armrest of his wheelchair. “Is he going to get punished for disobeying? Was this whole ‘hooker’ thing part of that? Or does he just go right on back to being Zach’s little bitch?”

“I’ve no idea,” Sam muttered, rubbing his temples. “We don’t really know if he’s gone back or not yet. I think he’s still trying to decide. But if he does… we’ve lost the most powerful ally we could have. We’re even more screwed than we were before.”

_Cas!_ yelled Dean, somewhere far away. _Answer me, you coward! Cas!_

“He gonna do that all night?” Bobby asked wryly, quirking a grin.

Sam shrugged. “Probably right up until he passes out.”

_Castiel!_

“It’s not lookin’ good, is it?”

“No,” said Sam. “It’s not.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

Two days went by. Dean waved off the prospect of a hunt in Maryland, declaring himself ‘too tired’, and to prove the point he wandered upstairs and passed out on the dusty bed in Bobby’s spare room for an entire day. Sam didn’t feel much like hunting anyway and so he took up residence on Bobby’s couch, surfing the net for news of Lucifer’s latest movements (none) or any sign of demon activity (also none). Bobby got on with his day-to-day business, shooting Sam knowing looks every now and then and making him run errands just because he was there. Sam didn’t care. He wanted to keep busy.

When Dean finally did come back downstairs, he still looked exhausted and he barely said a word. He wouldn’t engage in conversation and he kept vanishing into the yard to scream Castiel’s name at the sky.

Sam couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen him look so wounded. It made him feel sick.

“He’s takin’ it hard, ain’t he?”

Sam looked up. Bobby was sitting behind his desk, staring at the shuttered windows and blinking in the soft light of the sunset leaking through the wooden slats. Dean was out there again, although they couldn’t hear him as clearly as usual because he was starting to lose his voice.

“Castiel’s his friend,” Sam replied, after a pause. He’d almost said ‘Castiel _was_ his friend.’

Bobby nodded. He sighed and rubbed his neck, easing out some stiffness. “Poor kid. Never did have much luck when it came to choosing his pals. Seems they always hurt him in some way.”

“Castiel’s not a traitor,” Sam shot back, a little stung. “He’s just confused. You should’ve seen what Zach did to him, Bobby. He went through hell. It wasn’t all fantasy – he really got sick, and he was beaten and raped and god only knows what else. No wonder it’s messed him up.”

“I hear ya, Sam, you don’t have to rushing to his defense like a knight in shining armor. I understand. I’m just saying… Dean has crappy luck. But it’s not like you didn’t know that.”

“I think he–” Sam began without thinking, and then stopped himself.

“You think he what?”

Sam huffed out a breath and shook his head. “He really liked him.”

“The guy pulled him outta Hell after forty years of torture. I think I’d like someone who did that for me, too. And he seemed nice enough, from what I’ve seen of him. A bit serious, mind, but I suppose you don’t need a sense of humor when you spend your time smitin’ people.”

“It’s not just that.” Sam looked up, fixing Bobby with his gaze and hoping he wasn’t saying too much here. “I think he _liked_ him. They were really close, man. They had some kind of bond, I don’t know.”

Bobby’s eyebrows shot up, disappearing under his ever-present baseball cap. “Are you tryin’ to tell me that your brother’s gone gay for an angel?”

“No, I don’t think so. Except…” He sighed. “You’ve seen the way they stare at each other, right?”

Bobby nodded, a smile painting his lips. “Hell, yeah. But that’s just Cas not understanding the difference between just lookin’ at someone and staring at them like you’re trying to figure out what’s making them tick.”

“Dean stares right back at him though, doesn’t he? And it’s always so intense.”

Bobby laughed. “You are seriously readin’ too much into too little here, kid. Your brother’s about as far from liking men as I am from dancing for the Bolshoi Ballet. You’re imagining things.”

“When Castiel was human, he thought Dean was in love with him. He said he could read it in his eyes.”

“So? He was wrong!”

Sam swallowed. “I’m not sure he was. Bobby, I think Dean and Castiel… There’s something about them. I don’t even think they know it yet. But it’s there. That’s why Dean’s hurting so much right now.”

“He’s been dumped,” Bobby said.

“Something like that, yeah.”

“You know you sound totally cuckoo, don’t you?”

“Probably.” Sam smiled. “I hope I’m wrong.”

“You’re wrong,” Bobby said without a moment’s hesitation. “I’ll bet you fifty bucks you’re wrong.”

“Deal.”

Dean walked through the door, shaking water off his coat. The sun filtering through the window had disappeared, replaced by gray. A distant roll of thunder promised a storm.

“No luck?” Sam asked pointlessly.

“He’s not coming back,” Dean said, his voice, despite its hoarseness, carefully controlled. “He’s gone for good. Next time we see Cas he’ll be on a leash next to Zach, yapping on command.”

Sam closed his eyes. Much as he hated to think it, Dean was probably right.

“Sam thinks you’re in love with him,” Bobby said brightly. Sam’s head snapped up and he stared at him in horror.

Dean looked utterly confused. “Why the hell would I be in love with you?” he asked his brother.

“Not _him_ , moron,” Bobby amended. “Castiel.”

Dean just blinked at them, stupefied.

“I think that’s all the proof I need,” Bobby said smugly, poking Sam on the arm. “You owe me fifty bucks.”

“Forget it,” Sam told his brother hastily.

Dean whistled and shook his head. “You guys need to stop gossiping like sorority sisters,” he muttered. “You’ll be braiding each other’s hair next.”

Castiel was suddenly standing there. It happened in the blink of an eye, the way it usually happened; one moment there was _space_ and the next there was _angel_. Sam jumped to his feet and Bobby sat up straighter, his eyes widening.

Dean looked at Castiel and frowned. “So you finally decided to grace us with your presence,” he said sarcastically, not at all fazed by the sudden appearance. “Has Zachariah given you your old job back yet?”

A tiny crease appeared between Castiel’s eyes as he stared at him. “I have not yet made my decision,” he said.

“Holding out for a better pension plan, huh?” Dean snapped.

Castiel placed his hands in his coat pockets. “I can’t get past two important issues,” he said uncomfortably.

Dean folded his arms and leaned on the nearest wall. “Come on then, run them by me. Let’s see if I can make your mind up for you.” His voice was filled with belligerence. Sam wondered if Castiel noticed it, but he seemed unaffected.

“If I go along with my brothers’ plan and Paradise is truly brought to Earth, humanity’s suffering will end,” Castiel said. “But in order for them to experience Paradise, Lucifer must complete his plans for the apocalypse. And humanity will suffer. There will be great pain and terror. The suffering of almost seven billion souls would be astronomical.” He stopped, looking down at the floor. “I am not sure that amount of pain is worth the end result.”

“So you’re making this into a math problem?” Dean said bitterly. “If ‘x’ amount of suffering equals ‘y’ amount of Paradise, does the algebra balance out?”

“It’s not a mathematical problem,” Castiel said. “Don’t mock me, Dean. I know I’m talking about real lives here.”

“No, you don’t. If you did you wouldn’t even be considering allowing the apocalypse to happen.”

“Dean…” Castiel let out a breath and looked away. For the first time his eyes fell on Sam and Bobby before he dropped them to the floor again.

“What was the second issue?” Dean asked.

Castiel paused. “You,” he said.

“Me?”

“And your brother. You are my friends. I want to see you happy.”

Dean chuckled darkly. “Okay then. Buy me a burger, pour me a beer, go fetch me Megan Fox and, oh yeah, don’t destroy the Earth. That should cover it.”

Bobby opened his mouth to say something, but Sam lifted a hand to silence him. This had nothing to do with them. This was between Dean and Castiel. Again.

“If you allow Michael to possess your body, you will fight Lucifer and you may die,” Castiel observed, staring off into the distance. “You could die or Sam could die, but either way, you will be rewarded with a place in Paradise. Heaven will be grateful. But if that happens, you will have brought about the end of humanity.” He finally turned to stare at Dean. “Because of this, you will be miserable in Paradise. Both of you.”

Bobby snorted. “Oh yeah, you know these boys alright. Only a Winchester could be miserable in Paradise.”

“I don’t want you to be miserable,” Castiel said. “You are my friends.”

“Then stay with us,” Dean said softly, taking a step towards him. “Come on, Castiel. Don’t leave us on some misguided mission. You made this choice before and you did good. Stick with it.”

“You’re asking me to put my feelings for you above the rest of humanity,” Castiel said.

Dean shrugged. “Isn’t that exactly what you did when you decided that the other Dean’s suffering was so bad you had to eradicate anything like it from the Earth?”

Castiel didn’t say anything. He just stared at Dean. Dean stared back.

“Don’t go,” said Dean.

“I want to stop the pain,” Castiel told him, so quietly Sam had to strain to hear the words.

“I don’t think that’s possible,” Dean replied, shaking his head sadly. “Whatever you do, whatever you choose, there’s going to be pain. You just need to be strong enough to live with it. I know you can do that, Cas. I saw how you were in that other life. You lived with all the pain in the world on your shoulders and you were still strong enough to fight it, every single second. You were amazing, man. You were a whole other person but you were as strong as anyone I’ve ever seen. You’ve got to give the rest of the human race credit for being that strong too.”

“I’m… I’m so…” Castiel’s voice trailed off. He looked down at the floor again, his shoulders slumping. Sam stared at him, _willing_ him to make the right choice with all of his might, and had the sense that Bobby was doing the same beside him.

“I know you’re confused,” Dean said, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“I was so lonely,” Castiel said unexpectedly, placing a hand over his eyes. “I didn’t have anybody. All there was was pain. Day after day after day… it never ended. I would spend so much time with other people but they never looked at me; they never kissed me or showed any concern or told me they loved me. I was nothing to them. It went on and on, right up until you found me and you looked in my eyes and it was like the first time anybody had ever _seen_ me. I want to be able to feel that all the time… that feeling that someone cares. I want everybody to feel it, but they don’t.” He dropped his hand and gazed into Dean’s eyes again. “That’s what Paradise is, Dean. It’s knowing that someone loves you. There are so many people who don’t know that feeling, and it makes me ache inside. I want to feel it again, but I can’t. It’s… easier to wish for Paradise.”

Dean’s face went slack. He gazed into Castiel’s eyes, then swallowed hard. “You…” he said, but didn’t finish speaking. He shot an anxious glance at Sam and Bobby. Sam raised his eyebrows, wondering why his brother suddenly looked so freaked.

And then Dean grabbed Castiel by the neck, pulled him forward and kissed him hard on the lips.

Castiel lifted his hands in the air but he didn’t touch him back. He stiffened, his entire body locking in place, his eyes wide open and staring at Dean’s closed lids in what seemed to be panic. Dean kissed him open-mouthed, hungry and eager, but as soon as he realized Castiel wasn’t relaxing into it he broke it off and leaned back, out of breath, staring at him in concern.

Castiel looked absolutely shocked. “Why… why did you do that?” he gasped.

“It seemed to be the right moment,” Dean said in a small voice.

“After everything I went through, you think you can persuade me to stay with you by bribing me with _sex_?” Castiel sounded horrified. Betrayed.

Dean’s eyes widened. “That wasn’t sex!” he clarified, his voice squeaking a little. “That was a kiss! That’s what people do when they love someone – they kiss them!” The minute he said it he gulped in a breath of shock and clamped his mouth shut, staring over at Sam and Bobby, who stared back at him with their mouths hanging open. “Fuck,” Dean hissed, flushing a deep and powerful red.

“Oh, you are so busted,” Sam muttered, forgetting the seriousness of their situation for a few blessed seconds.

Castiel simply stared at Dean, his eyes wide.

“I’m not trying to bribe you,” Dean explained, pulling himself together with an effort. “I just wanted… I wanted to show you how I felt. You’re important to me, Cas, and not just because we need you on our side in this fucking apocalypse, and not just because I’m grateful to you for disobeying and getting your ass kicked and all the other shit you’ve done. I don’t want you to leave because you’re my friend and… and… fuck, this isn’t easy for me. I suck at big emotional speeches. I’m a guy and I like acting like a guy and repressing all my feelings and not telling people how I really feel about them. But this is the one time where I have to.” He took a deep breath and placed a hand on Castiel’s cheek. “Don’t go, okay? For me. I care about you. I don’t want to lose you. You’re _important_ to me, Cas. Really important. I mean it.”

Castiel didn’t flinch away from his palm. He stared at him. He stared and he stared. And after what seemed like forever he said, “Yes, Dean. I’ll stay with you.”

Sam felt a pressure lift around them that was so intense it was as though his ears had popped after a week of dullness. He took a deep breath, threw his head back and closed his eyes. Castiel was staying. _Thank God._

Then he reached across to slap Bobby on the shoulder and said, “You owe me fifty bucks, man.”

 

~ ~ ~

 


	6. Two For The Price Of One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean’s having a really, really bad night, but that’s nothing compared to the whole world of weird that’s going on with Castiel...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a sequel to It’s Not Easy Being Dean that’s taken me over a year to get around to writing. Shame on me! If you’ve read that, you’re good to go; if not, this won’t make much sense. Oh, and unlike the first part, which didn’t contain any porn despite being a hooker!fic, this one _does_!

Set sometime vague before ‘99 Problems’ in season five. 

**Warnings:** Hurt/comfort, Dean!whump. And many of the themes from the first story spill over into this one in varying degrees, so the warnings on that fic are the same for this: mentions of consent issues, child abuse and violence, plus anything associated with a life on the street. It’s fairly dark in places, so be warned.

 

~ ~ ~

Dean always did have crappy timing, but this one really took the prize. It wasn’t as though he was in the middle of fending off an archangel who wanted to use his body to defeat Satan in a gigantic battle that would destroy humanity or anything, oh no. His schedule was totally clear right now, wasn’t it? So clear, in fact, that it was the _perfect_ time to shatter his goddamn kneecap and get laid up in bed in so much pain he could hardly move.

At least he could still speak. And because he could speak, he could still order his brother around. “You’d better get that sonofabitch,” he grunted, watching his brother pack his kit bag ready for the hunt. “If you don’t, so help me, I’m going out there and killing it with my crutches.”

Sam picked up his shotgun and gave Dean a skeptical look that said, _Oh, really?_

Dean frowned at him in response. He’d been doing a lot of frowning over the past two days. “This sucks,” he announced, as though he hadn’t already told his brother that 500 times already.

“I’ll get him, don’t worry,” Sam assured him, zipping up his bag. “All I have to do is find the grave and then he’s toast.”

“Yeah, an unmarked grave. How big is that cemetery again? Looked like freakin’ Texas on the map.”

Sam shrugged. “I’m not saying I’ll find it _quickly_.” He raised his eyebrows. “You sure you’ll be okay while I’m gone?”

Dean scratched at his neck casually, trying to look a damn sight better than he felt so Sam wouldn’t feel so bad about leaving him. But he wasn’t okay. He was hot, sweaty and uncomfortable: their motel room was the only one free in this tiny Mississippi town and the air-conditioning only seemed to work when it felt like it. His knee throbbed despite the pills the doctor had given him yesterday morning and the heavy fabric brace around his leg felt sticky and itchy. Most of all, however, he was tired. Tired of bad shit happening, not just to him but to everyone around him, and tired of worrying about the future.

It was a future he now had to face on one leg and with a head messed up from medication. He couldn’t even _drink_ , for crying out loud, because of the anti-inflammatory pills. He was sick of the universe kicking him when he was down. Sometimes it didn’t even let him get up again first.

“Get outta here,” he told his brother anyway, his voice carefully upbeat. “I’ll be fine. I can make it to the can on my own, I’ve got food and all the pills I need to take the edge off. Go salt-and-burn that douche. And watch out for bricks.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t be forgetting to dodge any time soon,” Sam said, staring pointedly at Dean’s right knee. The spirit had whacked him with a piece of masonry; the sharp crunch and pop of cartilage still made Dean’s stomach roll every time he thought back to it. He knew he should probably be in the hospital right now having the x-rays and scans the doctor had ordered him to get yesterday, but he’d wanted to get out of there – much to Sam’s disapproval, of course. But until the swelling went down, at least, Dean figured nobody would really know what had been messed-up inside his leg, and he’d had enough of hospitals to last a lifetime.

From how the knee felt, though, Dean was fairly certain he was going to need surgery... and with that suspicion came the knowledge that he wasn’t going to be doing anything even as basic as _driving_ for the next few months, let alone fighting to save the world.

He really needed a drink.

Sam was looking him up and down contemplatively. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew when Dean was faking bravado, and he knew just how shitty he had to feel right now. But he had a spirit to send packing, a hunt to finish, a job to do, and nurse-maiding a grumpy brother didn’t quite take precedence over saving lives. “I don’t think I’ll be back before dawn,” he declared, sounding apologetic.

“Dirty stop-out.”

“Seriously, Dean – if you need me, call. Don’t be a hero. If you fall over or something...”

Dean snorted. “I’m not a turtle, dude. If I fall on my back I can get back up again.”

“Yeah? I saw you trying to get your jeans off last night. You were so slow you looked like you were going backwards.”

“Are you gonna get out there and fry the bastard who did this to my leg, or are you just gonna stand there insulting me?”

Sam backed down, his lips twisting into a patronizing grin. “Aww, you’re so pitiful right now. My heart melts.”

“Some Florence Nightingale you’d make. Do I have to say it again? Get outta here!”

Sam went. He did a final inventory of the room first: bottles of water on the nightstand, a clear path to the tiny bathroom, crutches propped on the wall by the bed, cellphone charged, laptop and TV remote on the mattress... everything Dean could possibly need while he was gone. By the time his brother walked out of the door and into the darkening evening, Dean felt like a dog tied to a kennel with his waterbowl and chewtoys – he had everything except his freedom. He scowled at Sam until the moment the door slammed closed, and then his head flumped back onto the pillows as every ounce of strength left him.

Jesus, he was tired.

 

~ ~ ~

 

As it turned out, sleep was impossible. It was far too hot to do anything except sweat, and so Dean sweated. The ceiling fan was broken and the windows didn’t open; they’d been locked shut and painted closed in a spectacular feat of usefulness. Dean toyed with the idea of opening the door to let some air in, but decided against it in the end – not only was it just as warm outside, he was also lying on the bed wearing nothing but medical strapping on his leg and a pair of black briefs, in full view of anyone walking by. Roasting to death was preferable to giving his neighbors an eyeful.

Goddamn ghost. Goddamn leg.

The fact it was evening didn’t help the temperature any. Dean was awash in a pool of sweat, too fed up to concentrate on TV or surf the net. He lay flat on his back, panting like a dog, wondering how Sam was doing out there in the swampy heat surrounded by gravestones and homicidal ghosts. He felt useless, impotent, cast-aside, which was pretty ironic given how important he was to the fate of the world. Dean Winchester: Michael’s sword. Yeah, right. He felt more like a broken spoon than a sword right now.

Eventually he decided to take a shower, although he didn’t hold any illusions that the water would be particularly cold. Grunting, hating to move, he pulled himself upright, grabbed the scuffed crutches given to him by the hospital and slowly eased himself onto his feet – or foot, anyway. His right leg swung out in front of him and he winced as he half-hopped, half-dragged himself into the bathroom. Shit, it hurt. Even with the painkillers there was a dull, sickening throb coming from his knee that occasionally spiked into a stab of agony. The brace held everything still, thankfully, but it wasn’t perfect. He was sweating even more heavily as he yanked the string to turn on the bathroom light, and his face in the mirror looked unnatural as he stared at it: flushed from the heat yet sickly gray in places, as though his skin couldn’t quite decide how awful it wanted him to look.

“You sexy thing, you,” he quipped, frowning at himself, before turning to the shower. Except it wasn’t a shower. Somehow, despite the fact they’d been in this damn room since the day before, he’d failed to notice that not only was this the world’s most cramped bathroom – with barely enough room for his crutches to navigate the space between the basin and the toilet – but it didn’t even have a shower cubicle.

Dean stared at the tub, examining the faucets, but that’s all it was: a bath. No shower attachments. If he wanted to get clean, he’d need to climb into it. But the side was so high he knew it was impossible without even trying – there was just no way he could do it without having to bend and twist his knee in some way.

Great.

He was still contemplating what to do when the sound of his cell ringing from across the room sent him hobbling back to the bed as fast as he could, cursing every inch of the way. He pictured Sam trying to get hold of him because he needed help or was injured – dammit, why couldn’t he move _faster?_ Stupid goddamn crutches – but when he scooped the phone off the mattress, the caller ID said ‘Castiel’. Out of breath and flustered, Dean found himself channelling his concern into a very grumpy “What is it, Cas?” instead.

There was a pause on the other end before Castiel said, “Dean?” He sounded surprised.

“Who the hell else would it be?”

Another pause. Then, “You sound agitated. Perhaps this is not a good time.”

Was it Dean’s imagination, or did Castiel actually sound a little miffed? He rested one elbow on a crutch and pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “No, no, it’s okay. Sorry, man. I’m not having a great evening.”

“Where are you?”

“Mississippi. Room seven, Fairlawn Motel, uh... I can’t remember which town we’re in. Wait, I can probably find it on the–” But Castiel appeared before he’d finished speaking, making him jump. He snapped the phone shut and placed it on the nightstand, looking over at the new arrival. “Hey, Cas.”

Castiel never changed. He always looked the same. Perhaps a little more tired around the eyes since his powers had started diminishing, and his coat was probably slightly less clean than in the old days. But otherwise he was the same as ever, and the quizzical look on his face almost made Dean smile because it was just so damn _him_.

“You’re not dressed,” Castiel observed, and Dean remembered then that he was standing there in his underwear. He was too hot to care. The angel’s gaze moved downwards and he stared at the binding around Dean’s knee with interest. “And you’re injured.”

“Ghost decided to hobble me,” Dean informed him, lowering himself onto the bed and placing the crutches to one side. He held his breath as he moved his leg out in front of him, trying not to bend it, before peering up at Castiel hopefully. “Your healing mojo would come in pretty handy right now, if you’ve got any left these days.”

Castiel’s expression didn’t change. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, I know. Too much to hope for.” Dean placed a hand on the sweat-damp material over his knee and sighed. “Did you want something?”

Castiel looked around the room. “Where is Sam?”

“Out ganking the spirit that did this.”

“Oh.” Castiel placed his hands in his pockets, a little crestfallen. “I have a lead on one of Lucifer’s demon lieutenants, but it can wait.”

“Guess it’ll have to. He won’t be back until the morning. And as you can see, I’m next to useless right now.” Dean didn’t even try to hide the contempt for his situation in his voice.

There was a long, vaguely uncomfortable silence before Castiel said awkwardly, “Can I do anything to help?”

Dean almost said no. He didn’t need help; he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, busted knee or no busted knee. But he could feel sweat trickling down his back, the unrelenting throb of bruised and torn ligaments in his leg; he felt hot and prickly and exhausted. After a moment’s thought he asked, “Can you fix the A/C?”

Castiel blinked at him, then strode across the room to check. He placed a hand on the machine and a heartbeat later the low, comforting _whirr_ of the unit filled the room. It was the most glorious sound Dean had ever heard.

“You’re amazing,” he announced, throwing his head back in relief before twisting to grin at Castiel. “You’re a life-saver, man. I swear I could totally kiss you right now.”

Castiel’s shoulders stiffened, every muscle in his body going rigid with tension. He didn’t turn round, still staring down at the machine, and Dean belatedly realized what he’d done.

He wasn’t supposed to mention kissing.

He wasn’t supposed to mention what had happened between them a couple of months back: how he’d kissed Castiel while trying to prove to him that humanity deserved a chance, or that Castiel had spent months living on the streets as part of a cruel lesson concocted by Zachariah that still made Dean’s teeth grind in anger whenever he thought about it. He wasn’t supposed to notice when Sam or Bobby called out Dean’s name and two Deans would answer – one real, and one fake who tried to pretend it hadn’t happened by turning away in embarrassment. He wasn’t supposed to react whenever Castiel jumped out of his skin if someone touched him; he wasn’t supposed to ask if Castiel was okay, or mention sex or sickness or anything that would bring back memories of what Castiel had been through.

It was the unwritten rule he and Sam both shared while dealing with Castiel: don’t mention Dean Winchester. The _other_ Dean Winchester, the streetwise, doomed hustler who’d nearly died from AIDS right in front of their eyes before being transformed into the stiff-backed, too-serious angel he’d been before. The angel who didn’t mention him, either. The angel who was now standing with his back to Dean, his entire body tight with some kind of emotion Dean could only guess at.

_I swear I could totally kiss you right now._ Well done, Dean.

“What’s the temperature setting?” he asked weakly, scrabbling to change the subject. Castiel remained still for a moment before leaning down to read the dial before him, but Dean could see his hands clenching at his sides.

“Adequate for your comfort,” he declared, straightening again. “I must go.”

“Wait, Cas.” Dean paused, hoping he’d turn around to look at him, but Castiel seemed more intent on staring at the curtains. “Stay a bit longer. Some company would be nice.”

“It’s late. You should be sleeping,” Castiel observed, his voice almost a growl.

“I’m too sick to sleep. My knee hurts and I’m too hot. At least stay until the room cools down.”

Castiel lowered his head; he wasn’t convinced.

“And I need your help,” Dean told him, improvising madly. “I need to take a bath but I can’t get into it. The edge is too high and I’d have to bend my knee. Can you, uh, lift me into it? Please?” Even as he spoke Dean felt himself blushing; this was humiliating on so many levels. But it seemed to engage Castiel, who turned to stare at him thoughtfully.

“I believe if you take a bath, you will feel better,” he said. “It would be a good idea.”

Dean nodded, pleased. “Thanks, dude.” He grabbed his crutches and stood, biting his lip as pain darted through his knee. Castiel watched him for a few seconds before disappearing into the bathroom, the sound of running water suddenly filling the room as the tub started to fill. By the time Dean managed to hobble over to the doorway, however, Castiel was gone. The bathroom was empty.

“Cas?” he called, confused, and then Castiel was back again, leaning over the tub and pouring some honey-colored substance into the water from a small bottle. A few seconds later, the entire room smelt of flowers. “What the hell is _that?_ ” Dean asked, aghast.

“It will help you relax,” Castiel said, shaking water off his hands and looking around at the four tiled walls uncertainly.

“It smells like roses!”

“Yes.”

“Cas, it might have escaped your attention, but I’m a guy. Guys don’t like to walk around smelling like a bouquet.”

Castiel turned to look at him, his expression unreadable. “I just went to Bangalore to fetch you this oil. It’s greatly prized for its soothing properties.”

“You couldn’t have asked me first? I don’t want bees trying to make love to me all day, Cas.”

“I assumed you would be grateful,” Castiel said tersely, and shut off one of the faucets. “I believe the water has reached the correct temperature, but you should check it meets your _approval._ ”

Dean swallowed, not sure whether to be annoyed with himself or annoyed with Castiel. In the end he merely hopped over to the edge of the bath. Castiel tried to move out of his way but the room was so small their arms brushed; he disappeared in the blink of an eye, the way he always did these days when someone made contact with him, accidentally or otherwise. Dean turned to see him standing in the doorway, staring at the ceiling of the bathroom with an unreadable expression. Then he reached down unsteadily and trailed a finger through the water.

“That’s perfect. Good guess.”

“It wasn’t a guess. I chose it by comparing the average temperature of the human body with the temperature of this room to determine the most comfortable heat for you.”

“Science nerd.” Dean shot him a grin which wasn’t returned. Shrugging, he looked down at himself, realizing that he was going to have to remove his underwear to get into the tub. He toyed with the idea of leaving his briefs on for modesty’s sake, but it seemed ridiculous: Castiel probably didn’t give a damn about seeing him naked. Hell, he’d seen enough naked guys during his time under Zachariah’s spell; what was one more to add to the list? Something inside Dean recoiled at the thought of Castiel living that life, so he took a breath and banished it. He never really knew how well Castiel’s mind-reading powers worked these days, or even how they worked at all, so thinking about such things wasn’t a good idea around him.

Leaning his hip against the basin, Dean rested his crutches on the wall and tried to bend to undo the brace on his knee. He’d barely even brushed it with his fingers before Castiel was on his own knees before him, tugging gently but firmly on the Velcro fastenings, that inscrutable look still on his face.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“It seemed more efficient than watching you struggle.” Castiel flicked his eyes around him, studying the bathroom, before seeming to steel himself and turn back to Dean’s knee. “This room is very small.”

“You’d think they’d fit a shower and get rid of the tub, wouldn’t you? Free up some more space.”

Castiel coughed, just a little. “It needs a window.”

“You saying it smells in here? That’s the girly flowers, dude. It’s your fault.”

The brace came off and Dean gasped as cool air hit his overheated skin, then winced as his knee wobbled a little. “Damn, that hurts.”

If he was expecting sympathy, he didn’t get it. Without a word of warning Castiel pulled down Dean’s underwear, making him yelp in surprise. “Lift,” ordered the angel, and Dean found himself tilting sideways against the basin, painfully lifting each foot enough to allow Castiel to remove his briefs completely.

“Well, this isn’t embarrassing at _all_ ,” he grumbled, mortified.

Castiel rose to his feet, barely even glancing at the naked flesh in front of him. He looked around the bathroom again, his eyes wide, and as Dean studied him he realized that he was breathing heavily. Was he embarrassed, too? That didn’t seem like him.

“How do we do this?” he asked, wanting to get it over with for the both of them.

“I lift you into the tub,” Castiel said evenly, but he was staring out of the door and into the room beyond.

“Uh...” Dean looked down at the water. “Be careful, Cas. I don’t think I should bend my–”

He was in the water. It was so unexpected that he jerked in shock, almost banging his head on the rim of the tub, but Castiel’s hands held his shoulders steady and he let out a long, slow breath as he realized he was lying flat and his knee hadn’t moved at all. The water was glorious, smooth and silky against his skin, just warm enough to be comfortable but cool enough to bring his temperature down. He took a moment to adjust to the new sensations and flexed his fingers by his sides, watching the eddies swirl and spin, before looking up at Castiel to say thank you.

But Castiel wasn’t there any more. Dean called out, thinking that perhaps he was in the next room, but there was no answer. He waited, expecting him to return in a few minutes with another bottle of flower juice or angelic bubblebath or whatever else he thought Dean’s bathing experience needed, but he didn’t.

Castiel could be weird at times; it wasn’t as though Dean didn’t know that. But what the hell was wrong with him now? Not that he’d expected the angel to just sit there and watch him soak or, god help him, scrub his back or anything, but just vanishing without a word... what was that about?

More importantly, how the hell was he going to get out of the tub without help?

“You’d better come back!” Dean called, but there was nobody there to hear. Muttering, he soaped himself up – touching his smashed knee as little as possible, because sweaty or not, it hurt like a bastard – before sliding down under the surface as far as he could manage without having to bend his legs. The water was oily but he had to admit that it did feel nice, and the smell certainly covered up the faint aroma of mildew the bathroom was giving off.

Taking a deep breath, Dean rested his head on the back of the tub and closed his eyes, letting his body and mind drift. It felt good, although after a while he started wondering how Sam was getting along and his calmness evaporated. It wasn’t that he didn’t think his brother could look after himself; it’s just that he wished he was there. Walking. Yeah, being able to walk would be pretty fucking wonderful right now.

“Are you ready?”

He looked up. Castiel was standing in the doorway, his back to the tub in what Dean assumed was an attempt at giving him some privacy, although he’d already had an eyeful of everything anyway so it was kind of pointless. “Where did you go?” he asked.

Castiel’s head dropped down, and Dean was surprised to see sweat shining on the back of his neck. Huh. Apparently it was so hot that even Castiel’s usual imperviousness to heat was having some issues. “Nowhere you know,” the angel replied. “Are you ready?”

Dean looked down at his prune-fingers and sighed. “Yeah, I guess so. You know, much as I hate to say it, that rose stuff was kinda–” And then he was sitting on his bed, dripping all over the blankets and blinking in the light from the lamp on the nightstand. Castiel was standing in front of him and, as Dean looked up in surprise, a towel was shoved into his hands.

“Here,” said Castiel, but as Dean took the fabric from his grip he saw that Castiel’s fingers were trembling.

“Are you okay?” he asked, baffled.

“I’m fine.”

“What’s with the DTs? Too much caffeine?”

Castiel lifted a hand before him and stared at it accusingly. Dean wasn’t imagining it; it shook in mid-air, as though Castiel was either cold or terrified. “It’s nothing,” he said dismissively, dropping it again, but he looked a little disturbed.

When he didn’t offer anything else by way of an explanation, Dean gave up. Man, Castiel was a secretive SOB when he wanted to be. “Thanks for the help,” he announced, drying himself off. While his head was underneath the towel Castiel moved away, returning with a pair of clean briefs that he dropped on the bed beside him. Dean looked down at them, amused. “Heh. You’re kinda acting like my slave.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Castiel said dryly, and wandered over to the window.

It took a while, but Dean managed to pull on his underwear as Castiel stared into the night at things only he could probably see. The room was growing cooler now, enough for the water on Dean’s skin to give him goosebumps, but he wasn’t complaining. He looked around him for the knee brace and realized it was still in the bathroom – along with his crutches, which meant there was no way for him to fetch it himself.

“Cas? Could you get me my crutches and that shitty thing I have to wrap around my knee?”

Castiel turned. He looked over at the bathroom and to Dean’s utter astonishment he saw something that looked like fear flash on his face. Then he was gone, appearing by the bed again with the objects in his hand faster than Dean’s brain could process.

This time, however, Castiel had to steady himself on the nightstand as he threw the brace onto the bed, and that was when Dean knew something really was wrong.

“What’s goin’ on with you?”

“I’m fine,” Castiel snapped with uncharacteristic anger, pushing himself upright again and propping the crutches against the wall.

“Yeah, right. That’s why you looked like you were about to freak out in the bathroom and you’re shaking now. What is it? Spill, dude. No bullshit.”

Castiel opened and closed his mouth, meeting Dean’s eyes before turning away. He glanced over at the bathroom and dropped his gaze to the floor. “That room is too small,” he said, his voice strangled.

“So? You telling me you’re claustrophobic all of a sudden?”

Castiel didn’t answer, and Dean finally got it. He remembered back to that horrible car journey with Castiel – no, Dean; he’d been _Dean_ back then – and how _Dean_ had fought like a tiger to escape the vehicle rather than go back to Kansas and face his father. He remembered losing his temper and threatening to throw him in the trunk of the car, and he remembered Dean begging frantically, _Don’t put me in the trunk, I don’t like small spaces... please don’t..._

Castiel later said that Dean had been locked in a closet for two days by his father as a punishment for cutting himself. He’d been claustrophobic as a human, and now Castiel was, too.

“Oh,” he said, as guilt washed over him. “I’m sorry, Cas. I didn’t know. You should’ve said something. I wouldn’t have expected you to go into the world’s smallest bathroom if I’d known how you felt about–”

“This is nonsense,” Castiel interrupted him, scowling at the carpet. He looked furious with himself. “There is enough air in that room. I can see it. I know it’s there. And I can survive without air – I don’t even need it to sustain this vessel, to sustain myself. But I go in there and I feel... I feel trapped, and I remember being terrified of dying, of the dark and hearing my brother screaming for me, and it... It wasn’t even me, Dean. It shouldn’t affect me, but it does.”

“Give yourself a break, okay? You went through a lot of shit, Cas. Some of it’s going to stay with you.”

Castiel breathed out through his nose, loud and frustrated. “Some of it? I remember all of it! We angels don’t forget, Dean. We’re blessed and cursed to remember everything that ever happens. Zachariah gave me another life and I recall it in excruciating detail – name any day, any month, any year, and I can tell you what I... what Dean was doing at any second of it. I remember it all, every moment, but most of all I remember how it _felt._ Feelings are still so new to me and I can’t... handle how they make me...” He closed his eyes, his voice trailing off.

It was the most Castiel had said in months, and there was raw pain in his voice. Dean stared at him and did the first thing he could think of, the first thing that came naturally to him: he reached out a hand, placing it on Castiel’s arm, saying, “Hey,” in the most soothing voice he could muster. But Dean was an idiot, remembering just a moment too late that Castiel didn’t like to be touched. The angel lurched backwards, bumping into the wall behind him as he moved to get away from Dean’s hand, and there was a look of total, unmitigated panic on his face.

“I’m sorry!” Dean said quickly, raising his hands before him. “I forgot! It’s okay, I was just trying to... Jeez, Castiel, I don’t even know what I can do here, but I’m trying, alright? You’re not alone with this, you’re really not.”

“That’s my problem,” Castiel said shakily, after a pause. “I’m _not_ alone with this. I feel like I’m two people. He’s still here, Dean. He’s still inside me, and I can’t ignore him.”

Dean sighed. “Just give it some time. Maybe he’ll fade.”

“We _don’t forget,_ ” Castiel told him pointedly, stressing each word. He waited a few moments, letting it sink in, then straightened, tearing his body away from the wall. “I didn’t want to burden you with this. My issues are private. Personal. I wasn’t expecting to feel as bad as I did in that... room. You don’t need me any more tonight, do you? You have everything you need?”

“Don’t you dare leave, Cas,” Dean ordered, aghast. “You’re staying here!”

“Dean, you really...”

“What if I fall over? What if I can’t get up and I’m lying there like a turtle, waving my legs in the air? I need you here till Sam gets back, okay?”

Castiel looked faintly amused at that. “As delightful an image as that is, Dean, I’m sure you could right yourself without any help from me.”

“Stay,” Dean said again, putting as much command into the word as he could. They locked eyes, doing that staring thing they hadn’t done in months, until finally Castiel lowered his gaze.

“I will stay until you fall asleep,” the angel offered.

“I’m not going to fall asleep. We’re going to talk through what’s going on with you like a pair of adults. Take it from me: repressing bad shit may feel like the right thing to do, but it just makes you worse. Don’t tell Sam I said that, though.”

“I don’t wish to talk.”

“Then just keep me company. Here.” He patted the mattress beside him, watching Castiel carefully. When he didn’t respond, Dean shook his head. “Okay, don’t.” He reached out and picked up the brace, folding it gingerly over his bruised and swollen knee and pulling on the straps until it was adequately supporting the joint again. It hurt. He wasn’t due for another painkiller for a few hours yet, so Dean just gritted his teeth and bore it, forgetting Castiel was even there for a few moments as he dealt with the swell of agony.

“How did it happen, exactly?” Castiel asked, studying Dean’s knee with a thoughtful look on his face.

Bindings secure, Dean dragged himself uncomfortably up the mattress until he was lying flat on his back on the pillows, then patted the blankets beside him again. “I’ll tell you. Come on. Take the weight off your feet. You need to relax more, Cas. You always stand like you’re about to be inspected by the head of the palace guard or something.”

Castiel stared at the bed, clearly trying to think of a way out of having to climb on it. Dean sighed. “Just once, man, chill out.”

It looked like a struggle was going on inside him, but Castiel finally relented. He stepped around the other side of the bed and went to sit down, but Dean raised a hand. “Dude, shoes! And take that dumbass coat and jacket off. No wonder you’re sweating.”

A moment’s hesitation and Castiel obliged. Dean watched with a feeling of satisfaction as he toed off his shoes, removed several layers of clothing until he was only wearing shirt and slacks and slowly, tentatively, settled himself on the mattress beside Dean until they were lying side by side. Dean rolled his head to look at him and Castiel did the same until they were eye-to-eye, only a few inches apart.

“Better?”

“Being horizontal instead of vertical isn’t better, Dean. It’s just different.”

“You are one pedantic bastard, you know that?”

Castiel looked away, gazing up at the ceiling. “How did you hurt your knee?”

Dean told him. He explained the case they were working on, detailing the deaths and the weird events that had brought them here, describing the fight in the run-down orphanage that had ended with hard concrete hitting soft flesh and brittle bone. He told Castiel about Sam heading out to the cemetery and trying to finish things by finding the grave of Ezekial Chambers, realizing that he probably needed to call him to check everything was okay. He’d barely even finished the thought before Castiel disappeared. Dean was still blinking into thin air when he returned, taking up exactly the same position on the bed as he had before.

“Ezekial’s body is lying the unconsecrated section outside the graveyard walls,” he announced sagely. “Sam is about to start looking there.”

“Dude, you were only gone for a few seconds... did you talk to Sam?”

“No.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “But you could’ve shown him where the grave was.”

“He will find it.”

“How big is the unconsecrated section?”

“There are three hundred bodies contained within.”

“And you didn’t want to help him narrow down his search because...?”

Castiel turned to look at him. “Ezekial’s spirit is in there right now, and he’s strong. However, by the time Sam reaches the grave, the sun will be rising and his powers will wane – that is this spirit’s curse. I assumed your brother would prefer to fight him when he’s weaker.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t think to bring Sam back here and send him out again in a few hours?”

To his credit, Castiel looked a little guilty. “No. Should I?”

For a moment, Dean almost said yes. But a little voice inside him whispered that with Sam here, Castiel would leave, and Dean didn’t want him to leave. He’d managed to get him to lie down on a bed, to kick off his shoes, to take a break from running around on his seemingly futile hunt for his father; how often would Castiel ever do that? And Dean thought back to the kiss all those weeks ago, how strange it had been to kiss a guy and how it had been a revelation that he could care so much about someone who drove him so crazy with all his weird little ways and peculiarities. He looked Castiel right in the eyes and saw a little spark in them, something sad, something beyond the unreadable fervor that usually shone there. He remembered Castiel saying _we don’t forget_ so forcefully and couldn’t help but imagine all the painful, humiliating horrors he’d gone through while wearing the life of Dean Winchester. His breath caught in his throat, pity and sadness mingling with honest, genuine affection for the person lying beside him.

“No. Leave him out there,” he said.

Castiel frowned, and for a moment Dean wondered if he’d just peeked into his mind and seen what he was thinking. He didn’t speak, though, and a silence fell between them as they gazed at each other across a few inches of pillow.

“You know you can tell me anything, don’t you?” Dean said at last. “I’m not going to judge you or change my opinion of you. You know that, right?”

Castiel’s face softened into something like fondness. “I do.”

“Whenever you want to talk about it, I’m here for you. I want you to know that. Now, tomorrow, next year, I don’t care – whenever you’re ready.”

Castiel closed his eyes, sighing. “I won’t ever want to discuss it. It’s shameful.”

“You were forced into it. It wasn’t your fault.”

“It’s still shameful.” Dark eyes opened again, looking over Dean’s shoulder at nothing. “Zachariah is the best of all of us when it comes to shaping worlds and lives. He is a master. I had no idea just how good he was until this.”

“Yeah, I remember how it felt,” Dean muttered, thinking back to his life as a douchey desk jockey named Dean Smith. “He even put me off my _food_ , man. That takes some talent.”

“You knew, though, didn’t you? You knew something wasn’t right the whole time?”

Dean shrugged. “I guess. Sam had to convince me a little, but underneath it didn’t quite feel right.”

“It felt right to me,” Castiel said, and his voice was hard to read. Bitterness? Sadness? Dean couldn’t tell.

“He worked harder on your Bizarro-world life than he did on ours,” Dean theorized. “He wanted you to live it for longer. He wanted you to suffer, so he made very minute of it as real as possible. If it felt right to you, that’s because he wanted it to. He didn’t with me and Sam.”

Castiel said nothing, still staring beyond Dean’s shoulder.

“He wants you to feel like this, you know. He wants you to suffer because you disobeyed him. You shouldn’t let him win.”

Eyes met his again. “And how do you suggest I stop him winning?” Castiel said softly, suddenly seeming immeasurably tired and worn. “How do I stop remembering how it felt to be miserable and alone, in pain and sick? How can I just turn that off, Dean?”

Dean smiled. “Because you weren’t, Cas. We found you. Me and Sam, we found you, and we looked after you, and we broke you out of that world and brought you back here. You were never alone. You had us. You had _me._ ”

Even as he spoke, he could feel the power in the words; how right they were, how important they were, and from the look on his face Castiel recognized it too. He rolled sideways, twisting until their bodies were closer than before, and to Dean’s surprise he ran a hand down the side of his face.

“Thank you for finding me,” Castiel murmured, and leaned in to touch Dean’s lips with his own. He pulled back almost instantly, however, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just done. Dean remained as still as possible, knowing how skittish Castiel was about bodily contact, and clearly he did the right thing because after a few seconds Castiel kissed him again – a soft, desperately tender sensation that nevertheless made Dean’s heart speed up until he was breathless. It lasted a full minute this time, right up until Castiel backed off again, licking his lips and studying Dean’s face intently.

“Don’t stop,” Dean told him, with a small grin. “I think this is what’s known as a ‘breakthrough’.”

Castiel regarded him seriously before kissing him again. It was heartbreakingly soft, like he was almost scared of hurting him, but Dean understood and didn’t make any attempt to change it. He twisted on the mattress until he could face Castiel properly too, trying not to wince as his leg throbbed at the movement, but Castiel didn’t notice. The kiss went on and on, gentle and bizarrely chaste, until finally Castiel stopped and simply lay there, stroking his fingers along Dean’s jawline. Dean could feel his hand shaking and felt a pang of sympathy: after everything Castiel had been through, touching another living creature must be fairly disturbing. Spending thousands of years as a virgin before being thrown into a life filled with sex, violence and pain could mess with anyone’s head.

“Feeling better?” he whispered, when the silence grew too long.

“Much,” said Castiel, and he smiled. But it wasn’t his own smile. Dean could barely remember ever seeing Castiel smile, despite the fact he’d known him for so long. No, this was a human smile, languid and carefree, and Dean knew it was _Dean_ coming to the surface in an instant and held his breath in shock, wondering who the hell had just been kissing him: an angel or Zachariah’s imaginary construct? Was Castiel really two people now?

Castiel didn’t seem to notice his unease, running the backs of his fingers down Dean’s neck and chest, tracing the lines and patterns of his body so delicately it made the hair on Dean’s arms stand on end. Lulled into a sense of peace, Dean decided not to make a big deal out of it. A smile was just a smile. Perhaps Castiel couldn’t help taking on some of that other Dean’s mannerisms; they’d bled into him, in the same way Sam sometimes copied Dean’s speech rhythms, or Dean cleaned his guns while sitting the same way his brother did. It meant nothing. And Castiel was _smiling_. How could that be bad?

Tentatively, Dean reached up and pulled on Castiel’s tie until it slid undone, tossing it behind him onto the floor. Blue eyes followed the movement with interest before coming to rest on Dean’s hand as it began to undo Castiel’s shirt buttons, watching his fingers calmly as material slid sideways to reveal skin.

“You sure you’re okay with this?” Dean asked as he slipped the shirt over Castiel’s shoulders, and his reply came in the shape of another kiss – this one firmer, more purposeful, and after a short while there was tongue in there, too. Dean kissed back, encouraged, feeling the first stirrings of heat in his lap. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he breathed when Castiel pulled back, and there was that smile again, that weird, hybrid Castiel-Dean mixture that was too human and strange to be entirely right.

Dean stared at it as Castiel shrugged off the rest of his shirt, stripping it from his arms efficiently before moving to kiss Dean’s chest, running a tongue around a nipple and making it hard. One hand skimmed down Dean’s side and ended up on his buttock, squeezing him through his cotton briefs, and the action was enough to make Dean hiss in pleasure. When the hand moved up and then down again, however, easing under the material until it found bare skin, Dean jerked backwards, his heart in his mouth. This wasn’t what he wanted. This wasn’t right. He didn’t want to get too caught up in this; he had to think about Castiel, not himself.

“What’s wrong?” Castiel murmured against his chest, kissing his ribcage.

“Lie back.” Dean struggled to sit upright, ignoring Castiel’s puzzled expression as he slowly, uncertainly, obeyed Dean’s command. He lay his head back on the rumpled pillow and stared up at him mutely, watching as Dean arranged his injured leg in a comfortable position and looked down at Castiel’s body. “Okay, so I’ve got to come clean here,” Dean began, and then words failed him when he saw the bulge in Castiel’s pants.

“Dean?”

Dean blinked, looking away as heat rose in his cheeks. “I’ve never done this before. With a guy, I mean. I think you should know that.”

“I already know that.”

“Yeah, I had a feeling you did.” Dean reached out and trailed fingers down Castiel’s chest. Now _his_ hand was the one that was shaking. “But I don’t want this to be about me, okay? This is about you. I want you to enjoy this, Cas.”

“You’re embarrassed,” Castiel said tonelessly.

Dean chuckled. “I’ll get over it.”

“This isn’t a good idea,” said Castiel, and he moved up onto his elbows as a prelude to jumping off the mattress. Dean pushed him down again firmly, making him gasp, and Castiel’s eyes flashed in sudden fear.

“This isn’t about me,” Dean repeated, placing a palm on the side of Castiel’s face to calm him down. “I want to make you feel good. Just this once, I want you to enjoy yourself.”

“You don’t have to–”

“Shut up.” Dean watched Castiel’s mouth snap shut and placed a finger on his lips. “Really, Cas, just shut up. Relax.”

 


	7. Two For The Price Of One continued

  


~ ~ ~

 

There was a long, tense silence before Castiel nodded slowly, but his expression was still dubious. Dean dropped his hand from his lips and kissed him. Castiel hesitated for longer than Dean would’ve liked before responding hungrily, pulling him down as far as Dean could manage without overbalancing ( _damn his crappy knee_ ), and they stayed like that for so long Dean’s lips were in danger of going numb by the time he pulled back. He didn’t waste any time once he did: he unbuckled Castiel’s belt, undid his buttons and pulled down his slacks and boxers, waiting as Castiel sat up and removed them entirely when Dean couldn’t lean far enough down the bed. Not being able to bend his right knee meant he couldn’t move too much, but when Castiel lay back down, stark naked and staring at him in trepidation, it was hard to care.

He looked vulnerable and small but, most of all, he looked human. Dean didn’t have a clue which version of Castiel was lying in front of him but he did know one thing: he wanted to make him twist and groan, to writhe around and come with Dean’s name on his lips. The thought was so carnal, and so unprecedented, that Dean almost shuddered from the force of it.

He kissed Castiel again, dropping his mouth to his neck and making the angel squirm before kissing him all the way down to the line of his pubic hair. He kissed that, too, twisting curls around his tongue and smiling as they tickled, and then there was nothing for him to do except swallow down Castiel’s upright and eager cock, which he did slowly and carefully, unfamiliar with the sensation. He licked and suckled at it, half out of his depth and half fantastically turned on, fairly certain he was doing everything right but childishly nervous that he wasn’t. Castiel didn’t make a sound; he just stared at him, an enigmatic look on his face that baffled Dean every time he glanced upwards. But his erection was proof that Dean was doing something right, and the harder it got, the more enthusiastic Dean felt about his skills. By the time Castiel’s breathing began to speed up, Dean was hard himself.

He moaned as Castiel’s hips moved upwards, adjusting his position to receive his cock as far down his throat as he could, and twisted his hand around the base as though defying Castiel to move again.

“You should...” Castiel gasped, blunt nails trailing down Dean’s arm.

“I should what, Cas?” Dean asked, releasing him long enough to speak. He rubbed his thumb against the underside of Castiel’s penis and grinned as he shuddered. “What do you want me to do?”

“You shouldn’t have to do this,” Castiel said, panting; his voice was so deep it was barely a rumble in his chest. “This isn’t... something I... expect you to...”

“One of the joys of life, dude. Learning something new every day.” He bent and licked the tip of the hard flesh in his hand, eliciting a soft, dangerous growl from its owner. “You like that? Is that doin’ it for you?”

“I don’t want to...” Castiel moaned.

“Oh, you do. You want to.” Dean licked him again.

“This isn’t...” It seemed as though Castiel couldn’t finish a sentence if his life depended on it. Dean smirked and swallowed him again, sucking hard and dirty, doing things with his tongue he never would have thought it capable of. Castiel’s throat released a low, desperate whine and he spread his legs... and then everything went wrong. Dean moved a few inches to the right to get out of the way, his knee twisted in the new position and that was it: he fell backwards in shocked pain, clutching at his leg as sweat broke out all across his body. Something had just _grinded_ in there. He almost screamed from the electric-agony of it; the room went fuzzy around the edges and a wave of dizziness swept over him before solid, soothing hands settled on his cheeks and he heard a stern voice saying his name.

His eyes focused. Castiel was leaning over him, his expression deathly serious with concern. “Dean?”

“Ow,” Dean responded, not really capable of forming words right now.

“Lie still.” Castiel let his face go and looked down at his knee as though he wanted to kill it. “I don’t think you’ve caused any more damage. It was just a twinge. You will be fine.”

Dean growled, finding his voice again. “Just a... just a twinge? That wasn’t a fucking twinge, you idiot, that was a fucking murder attempt!”

“You should see a doctor,” Castiel told him, ignoring the venom in Dean’s tone.

“Gee, you think?”

“It won’t heal on its own.”

“Yeah, I gathered that from the excruciating agony, thanks. Holy shit, that mother _hurts!_ ”

Castiel sat back, pulling a blanket over his lap to hide his nakedness. “I can’t help you,” he said apologetically, biting his lip.

Dean stared up at him, waiting for the pain in his knee die down. Why were things always so fucked up? Why did this shit always happen to him? An injured hunter was of no use to anyone. He couldn’t even give a _blowjob_ , let alone fight to stop the apocalypse. It was almost funny, but Dean didn’t feel like laughing.

“Sorry,” he said at last.

“It’s not your fault. And I don’t think our actions were wise anyway.”

Dean frowned. “What? Why would you say that?”

Castiel looked uncomfortable, a muscle in his jaw flexing. “What you were doing... It wasn’t pleasant for you. I shouldn’t have allowed it. I was selfish.”

“Selfish? It was just a blowjob. And I was enjoying it.”

“I appreciate the white lie, Dean, but I know...” He stopped. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Why do you think I’m lying?” Dean propped himself up on his elbows. “If I hadn’t liked doing it, I wouldn’t have done it.”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed. “Receiving fellatio is enjoyable. There’s nothing enjoyable about performing it.”

It was such a bizarre sentence to come from Castiel’s mouth that Dean gaped at him for a few moments. “I forgot that you’re an expert,” he said without thinking, then cursed himself for his tactlessness. But Castiel merely shrugged. It was a simple, innocent movement, but it wasn’t really him doing it.

“Dean,” said Dean, and Castiel’s head snapped up to glare at him. “I’m sorry, I really am. I’m sorry you had to go through so much crap.”

“What are you doing?”

“Talking to the third person in bed with us right now. The one that thinks sex is a bad thing.”

“It is a bad thing,” Castiel said, the words falling out of his mouth too quickly.

Dean shook his head. “No, it’s not. It’s a bad thing when it’s about power or money, yes, I get that. And I’m sorry that’s what Dean experienced. I can’t even imagine how that must have messed him up.” He leaned forward, placing a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “But that’s not what this is. This is intimacy. This is friendship, and two people caring about each other, and I guess,” he stopped, summoning up the courage to actually say it, “it’s also about love. I wanted to make you feel good, Castiel, and it wasn’t a chore. Let me finish it, okay?”

Castiel swallowed, looking lost and upset, every inch _Dean_ instead of the all-powerful angel he really was. “But you’re in pain,” he said weakly, dropping his eyes to Dean’s leg.

“Then we just find another way to do it.” Dean sat up, gritting his teeth, and pulled himself up the bed until he was sitting with his back against the headboard. “Here, this is comfortable. Come on.” He waved a hand at his lap, indicating that Castiel should come and sit there.

“You’re doing this out of pity,” Castiel snapped abruptly, surprising Dean with his vehemence.

“I’m not,” Dean protested, hurt.

Castiel ignored him, his expression darkening. “Yes, you are. You think you’re the man to ‘re-educate’ me. You think you know everything there is to know about carnality and lust, but you don’t. They’re low desires. Sex is not a good thing. Sex is never–” His voice broke a little, but he continued, “It’s foul and debased. I’ve had enough of it to last a lifetime. Two lifetimes.”

He climbed off the bed and stood with his back to Dean, breathing heavily, fingers clenching and unclenching by his sides. There was a heavy silence while Dean racked his brains to think to what to say; how the hell had they gone from kissing to this?

“You said you’d never talk about it,” he said eventually, keeping his voice soft and unthreatening. “I think you need to. I think you really need to.”

“No,” Castiel growled.

“Tell me, Cas. Come on. Don’t let Dean ruin things between us. This isn’t really about sex and you know it – it’s about how you weren’t in control. But you can be in control now.”

“I didn’t _matter!_ ” Castiel almost shouted, banging his fist on the nightstand so hard the wood cracked. Dean almost leapt out of his skin. “All those years! The way I struggled to survive through them, all that time, and nobody cared because I just didn’t matter! A life should have a purpose, a meaning, even if it is small in the vast space of my father’s universe, but I had nothing! Nobody gave a damn about me.” He turned to face Dean, and his skin was flushed with rage. “I was just a tool. That was all, a tool. People wanted to fuck me and belittle me, to make themselves feel powerful in comparison. The things I did, Dean, the things they made me do... And for nothing. There was no redemption for me, for him, for any of the humans in real life who live like that. It was nothing. It was meaningless.”

“You’re wrong.”

Castiel’s face twisted in contempt. “What the fuck do you know about it?” he snarled in a stranger’s voice.

Dean was thrown, but managed to speak anyway. “You meant something to me, then and now. It wasn’t meaningless.”

“How romantic,” Castiel grunted sarcastically, turning away.

His dismissal left Dean mute. He wasn’t even sure the Castiel he knew was in the room right now. One minute he’d been fine and then this... this angry, bitter person, the guy he’d spent a few days with in a grubby motel room in Los Angeles, back again in a slightly different shape and form, but just as defiant. Just as damaged. Zachariah really had taught Castiel a lesson he’d never forget, and Dean was only just beginning to realize it.

“I’m sorry,” said Castiel softly, breaking the silence. He sat down on the bed, naked back still facing Dean. “That was uncalled for. You’re only trying to help. I shouldn’t have thrown your sentiments back at you like that.”

“It’s okay. I get that you’re upset.”

“Without you and Sam I wouldn’t even be here right now. I’m grateful that you care about me.”

Dean thought hard. “I think you know that, Cas, but Dean doesn’t.”

Castiel looked over his shoulder at him. “I don’t understand.”

“Look, Dean’s still inside you, right? Not literally, I mean. It’s not like he’s Jimmy or anything, he’s not gonna take over your body when you’re gone. But he–”

“Jimmy’s not here any more.”

Dean paused. “What happened to him?”

Castiel’s gaze was steady. “Zachariah had to make room for Dean. Jimmy was removed.”

Dean frowned. “Where did he go? Heaven?”

“As far as I know.”

“So this body is yours now? All of it?”

Castiel looked away. “Yes.”

Dean thought about Jimmy Novak for a moment. Poor guy. He wondered if Castiel had bothered to tell his family the bad news, but he was in the middle of something here and didn’t have time to ask; later, he would. “So there’s you and there’s Dean,” he continued, shifting the pillow behind his back so he could sit up straighter. “You’re here and you’ve got me and Sam – we care about you. You know this. Dean, though, thinks nobody gives a damn. Somewhere inside you his... his essence, I suppose, is sitting there pining. He’s giving off all this hatred and resentment in your subconscious. That can’t be healthy.”

Castiel didn’t speak.

“You need to convince him otherwise,” Dean said. “I mean, I’m not a shrink or anything, but it seems to me if he thought he had at least one friend in the world he’d be a whole lot happier. And then you would, by extension.”

“Are you suggesting I talk to him? We’re the same person. It wouldn’t work.”

“Not you. Me.”

Castiel looked up at the ceiling. “I can’t channel him. He’s not exactly an entire persona. He can’t perform for your amusement.”

“He can. Perform, I mean. It’s sex, Cas, can’t you see that? I know this sounds crazy but I think I can get through to him while he’s having sex. It’s the one thing he knows better than anything, and like you said earlier, he always hates it. If I can make him enjoy it, if I can reach him while he’s having a good time... Well, who knows? It could work.”

It was an insane suggestion, but Dean had the weirdest feeling he was onto something. Hearing Castiel discussing sex as though it was a horrendous act to struggle through had shaken him up – he couldn’t stand the idea of anybody thinking that. And it was clearly the leftover parts of _Dean_ which were sitting inside Castiel that had made him think that way; before this had happened, Castiel had merely seemed nervous around sex, not repulsed by it. Dean had to embrace Dean, in a manner of speaking, and convince him that sex with a little bit of affection thrown in could be wonderful.

“I suspect you may be a little crazy,” Castiel murmured, rubbing at his eyes.

“I’ve been crazy for years. But more often than not, I’m crazy and right.”

Castiel twisted to face him. He looked tired again, but composed. “You really want to have sex with me, don’t you?”

“That’s because sex is fun. I need to teach Dean the same thing.”

“This is... very strange.” But Castiel’s expression had softened and he seemed less stiff, less worried. Dean took his hand.

“We can stop any time you want to, okay? And if I’m not enjoying it, I’ll stop. This is totally consensual. This isn’t the sex you’re used to.”

“The sex I had was consensual, usually,” Castiel said quietly. “But he... Or I suppose I should say, _I_ , still hated it.”

“Not this time.” Dean pulled him close and kissed his forehead. “Trust me,” he murmured, dropping his lips to Castiel’s ear.

“Yes,” Castiel whispered, shuddering.

“Come on. Sit here.” He waved a hand over his lap and watched as Castiel rose up on his knees on the mattress. He moved to pull down Dean’s briefs but Dean stopped him, grabbing his wrist. “It’s okay. Leave them on. This isn’t about me.”

Castiel’s face creased up in confusion. “But you can’t do this with your underwear on.”

Dean suddenly realized what Castiel was thinking. “No, no, that’s not what we’re doing here,” he said hastily, a little shocked at the thought of anal sex. _Whoa, give a guy some time to get used to the idea first._ “Look, just sit, okay?”

Still wearing a puzzled expression, Castiel straddled Dean’s lap, taking care not to jostle his injured leg. He settled himself delicately, keeping most of his weight on his knees, which was just right. Dean placed his hands on the front of Castiel’s thighs, appreciating how they felt; so firm, fine hairs tickling his fingers, warm and strong and defiantly masculine. Running his palms up them until he hit Castiel’s pelvis, he smiled up at him. “This is gonna feel good, okay?”

Castiel’s gaze was fixed on his hands. “I think I understand what you’re going to do now,” he declared, and licked his lips. Dean couldn’t help it; he dipped him downwards with a hand on his neck and kissed him. Castiel kissed him back, fingers carding through Dean’s hair. It felt good. For the first time in months, Dean felt the tension really ease from his body, the way no amount of rose-scented baths or whiskey or sex with random women picked up in bars could accomplish. He felt whole again. Castiel fitted him perfectly. He focused on the feeling and hoped with all of his might that the angel could read his mind after all; and when Castiel breathed a small, contented sound into his mouth, Dean took it as a sign that he could.

He placed his hand on Castiel’s cock, which had softened since he’d last touched it. He caressed it, taking it slow, moving gently up and down the shaft with his palm. Castiel’s head jerked back and he tilted his chin upwards, staring at the ceiling as Dean stroked him, gasping slightly when Dean licked the stubble around his adam’s apple. This wasn’t like last time: Castiel hardened gradually, exquisitely, delicately, and Dean felt every moment of it happen.

Time passed. Dean kept kissing him as he worked: face, lips, eyes, neck, nipples, collarbone, everything that was in reach. After a while Castiel’s skin shone with saliva and sweat in the orange light of the lamp beside the bed, luminous, inviting. By the time he was fully erect his chest was heaving and Dean felt hypnotized – but he was only just beginning.

“Lift up,” he instructed the angel, placing his hands under Castiel’s thighs and tugging. Castiel rose higher over his body, balancing upright on his knees until his penis was level with Dean’s mouth. Dean squeezed the hard muscles of the thighs each side of his body and licked the crown of the shining, flushed cock by his lips, reveling in the taste and feel of it.

“You don’t have to,” Castiel hissed, sounding out of breath. “Dean... you really don’t.”

“How many times do I have to say it? I want to.” He slid his mouth down as far as he could around the shaft, pulling and sucking with a soft hum of pleasure. Castiel’s entire body quaked and he made a sound of joyful, indescribable surprise, throwing his head back again. “Don’t swallow,” he gasped, surging up and down as though he couldn’t control the movement. “I’ll tell you... when... so you don’t have to... swallow.”

Dean hadn’t intended to swallow. Right up until that moment, in fact, he’d been quietly worrying about how to spit, thinking back to the subtle ways women he’d slept with over the years had dealt with that little socially awkward problem. But something about the way Castiel had sounded so panicky then – speaking from experience, obviously, because lord only knew how many men had come in his mouth, both real and imaginary – made Dean determined to take whatever Castiel threw at him, so to speak. It almost made him chuckle. _Nothing says ‘I love you’ more than swallowing._

“It’s okay, you don’t have to worry about that,” he soothed him, sliding his palms upwards to cup Castiel’s tense, sweat-damp buttocks. “Just relax.”

“Dean...”

“No, _Dean._ Yes, you. Trust me. I’m going to like this and so are you. Relax.”

He didn’t give Castiel a chance to respond; he fastened his lips on the end of his cock and moved downwards, silky smooth, deliberate, hungry. Thanks to the angles being different now he could take more of him than he had before, and he had to admit that it was a damn sight more comfortable to do this sitting up. Castiel stayed carefully still, his fingers curling in Dean’s hair as he worked, breaths coming short and fast as his body twitched with pleasure. The minutes passed as Dean concentrated, genuinely enjoying the heat in his mouth, the taste of sweat and hints of something he could only assume was pre-come and the tiny, helpless noises Castiel was making above his head.

When the meaningless sounds turned into words, however, Dean couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “That’s so good, don’t stop,” Castiel moaned, his eyes closed and his body trembling with tension. “Keep doing that... Don’t stop, you filthy whore.... _Take it_...”

Dean pulled back and slapped Castiel on the ass, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet room. “I’m not your whore,” he declared, indignant, as Castiel jerked his eyes open in shock. “Don’t call me that. We’re not whores, either of us.”

“W-what?”

“Your dirty talk needs some work.”

Castiel blinked, looking totally confused. “I didn’t... I didn’t know I was speaking.”

“I don’t think you were. It was Dean. Seems he’s picked up some bad habits from his customers.”

As Dean watched, something in Castiel’s face seemed to shatter. “Help him, please,” he begged, twisting his fingers on Dean’s shoulders. “Call him out of me and help him. Don’t let him go on like this, please.”

“I will.” Dean spoke gently, realizing that Castiel was about to fall apart right there and then, the two halves of him splitting in two like he was tearing down the middle. He tugged the angel’s hand out of his hair and kissed his fingers. “I’ll help him. I’ll help you. Don’t worry.”

“Call me Dean.” Castiel almost sounded as though he was in pain, his fingers digging into Dean’s skin.

“Okay, Dean. It’s okay.”

“ _Oh,_ ” said Castiel, closing his eyes, and his entire body shuddered. “More...”

“I love you, Dean,” Dean replied, saying the first thing that popped into his head. It was true, as far as it applied to the broken, imaginary person living somewhere inside Castiel’s mind. He knew he loved Castiel; why wouldn’t he love Dean as well?

“Say it again,” Castiel sighed, his head arcing down to touch Dean’s shoulder.

“I love you, _Dean._ ”

“ _Yes..._ Dean, I–” Castiel’s body whipcracked backwards and his hips thrust forward until his cock was in Dean’s mouth again, so hot and glorious that Dean almost lost his mind. He was rock-hard in his underwear so quickly he wondered how the hell he wasn’t dizzy.

“Yes, _yes_ ,” Castiel all but wailed, and Dean braced himself as the body in front of him pressed forward, fucking his mouth, out of control, wanton and shaking. “I’m sorry,” Castiel gasped, pushing forward again until Dean was pressed back against the wooden headboard, his mouth so full he could barely breathe. But he took him. He took him because he had to and he wanted to. So much so, in fact, that when Castiel let out a soft, plaintive cry and pulled out of his mouth, dropping his hands to his cock and pumping it, Dean pushed them away.

“Come in my mouth,” he demanded, glancing up at Castiel’s flushed face and unfocused, too-bright eyes. “Don’t you dare think that you’re not worth it, Dean, because you are. You’re worth it. Do it.”

“You... you can’t want that,” said Dean Winchester, because it was him, all over, without a shred of Castiel in sight. The angel was gone. In his place was a lonely, unloved, miserable street-hustler who’d been abused by his father and abandoned by his brother and treated like shit for his entire existence. He looked down at Dean in utter amazement, confusion and unexpected hope shining from his eyes, and Dean couldn’t help but smile at him.

“You’re not alone any more,” he said softly, cupping Dean Winchester’s cheeks in his hands, staring into his eyes. “Believe it. Believe it for me and believe it for yourself. Come on, Dean.”

Dean Winchester froze; he was poised, panting hard, and then he whimpered and pushed forward into Dean’s willing mouth, pumping hard and desperate and _lost_ until he emptied himself inside it with an anguished, heartbreaking sigh.

The other Dean, the real Dean, held him as close as he could until it was all over. And when he swallowed, he enjoyed it.

 

~ ~ ~

 

They were lying side by side again, staring up at the ceiling. The room was cool and the rising sun was sending out hints of its existence from behind the curtains, while the morning bird chorus was warming up in the scraggly trees in the car lot. Castiel was silent and had been for a while. Dean was coming down from a major adrenalin high, feeling the throbbing ache in his leg slowly rise as the pills faded from his system. He didn’t want to move, though. He hadn’t even had an orgasm but he felt as though he was lying there in the afterglow, as if Castiel’s pleasure had been contagious.

Eventually he sat upright, forced to move by the call of nature. Clearly his bladder hated him immensely because it made him walk to the bathroom and back, a painful, awkward process that ended with him collapsing on the mattress with a grunt. He breathed in and out a few times before saying grumpily, “Sorry to bug you, Cas, but I need some drugs fast. I think you knocked them on the floor when you smashed up the nightstand. Any chance you could grab me some?”

Castiel sat upright. He looked down at the floor by the bed and then stared at Dean’s knee as though trying to process why _drugs_ and _knee_ were related. Then he climbed onto his own knees and, to Dean’s surprise, began to pull open the Velcro fastenings on the brace.

“What are you doing?”

“Healing you.”

Dean raised his eyebrows, his stomach giving a little lurch of hope. “But you said you couldn’t.”

“I shouldn’t be able to, but I’m very determined.” Castiel removed the brace and threw it on the floor, then met Dean’s eyes. “This will probably weaken me, but I think you’re worth it.”

“Cas, if this is going to hurt you–” But Castiel was already rigid beside him, hands either side of Dean’s knee, which rapidly heated up until Dean yelped in surprise. He froze, too freaked out to move, as Castiel’s face hardened in concentration and his lips spoke silent words Dean didn’t recognize. It went on for at least a minute, the angel’s face slowly growing paler and paler until Dean started to feel afraid for him, and then Castiel gasped and jerked away, falling backwards onto his elbows. The mattress shook, and Dean waited for the movement to hurt him. It didn’t.

He looked down at his knee. The bruising had gone. The swelling, too. Nervously, he moved it – nothing. No pain, no ache, no sensation of smashed-up cartilage grinding together.

“Huh,” he muttered, and jumped to his feet. It didn’t hurt. It _didn’t hurt._ His leg was whole again. “Yes!” he cried, punching the air, and turned back to the bed. “Cas, you’re an absolute miracle... whoa. You okay?”

Blood was pouring from Castiel’s nose, red rivers flowing down his mouth and chin, dripping down his bare chest. Some was already on the sheets. His skin was grey and he was breathing heavily, but he somehow managed to smile. “I believe,” he croaked, “that it would be foolish to expect you to defeat Lucifer on one leg.”

“You’re insane,” Dean barked at him, vanishing into the bathroom and returning with a wet cloth. He dabbed at the blood on Castiel’s face, helping him sit up again and holding him still when he wobbled, but despite everything Castiel seemed in good spirits.

“This has been very educational,” said the angel, wincing as Dean wiped blood from his chest. “I enjoyed tonight very much.”

“Told you sex was enjoyable,” Dean said smugly, quirking a grin at him.

“Dean is still here.” Castiel closed his eyes, sighing, and Dean backed away for a few moments until he opened them again. “I can feel that something has changed, though. I feel... lighter.”

“That’s because you just lost all that blood healing me.”

“No, it’s not,” Castiel said seriously. He took Dean’s hand. “Thank you.”

Dean looked down at his knee. “No, thank _you_.”

They kissed. Dean didn’t even care that Castiel tasted faintly of blood.

There was a sudden scratching at the door as a key fitted the lock. Sam entered the room amidst a burst of clear, bright sunlight, stopping dead at the sight of his brother kneeling on the mattress kissing a naked angel covered in blood. They broke off and two faces stared up at him: one bloody, yet smiling and free; the other tired but relieved.

“Do I even want to know?” Sam said, dropping his bag on the floor.

“Probably not,” Dean said, grinning.

Sam studied him for a moment, looking down at the leg folded under him on the mattress. “Whoa. Did Cas heal you?”

Dean shot Castiel a fond look. “I think we kind of healed each other.”

“Huh.” Sam looked across at Castiel. “What happened to your nose?”

Castiel swiped at it with the back of his hand, gazing down at the blood with detached interest. “It’s not important.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Really? You look like you just did a few rounds with Mike Tyson, Cas.”

“Mike Tyson wasn’t here,” Castiel replied, still staring at the blood. Then he looked up at Dean and smiled. “There’s nobody here but us two.”

Dean had to kiss him again at that, and Castiel was more than happy to oblige.

“I ganked the ghost, by the way,” said Sam from across the room, sounding a little hurt. “And I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

 

~ ~ ~

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The John](https://archiveofourown.org/works/329987) by [stoatsandwich](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoatsandwich/pseuds/stoatsandwich)




End file.
